And So We Run Redux: Part I
by Medea Smyke
Summary: We know Gale got the Everdeens out. We don't know how or who else. When the Quarter Quell came to it's shattering conclusion, a whole new game of survival begins with a desperate escape from the Mayor's home. An expansion of my drabble "And So We Run." AU
1. Prologue

**And So We Run Redux**

_Tell me are you out there, is there nothing here to tame the human heart?  
I see a land that's ruthless, yet where each shadow ends a life begins to start.  
We broke the backs of strangers,  
Where are their wives and children now?  
We'll raise a rag of hope then tear it down..._– Pilot Speed

**Prologue**

The droning of aircraft and the distant whistle of a train are the only warning the people of District 12 receive. But, it is enough for those men and women who have lived to old age, the ones with childhood memories older than the Reaping and the Games.

In the Seam, the throbbing air wakes a ninety-year-old man from a fitful slumber. He thinks the noise belongs in the tail-end of a dream about the fall of the Dark Days, of the smoldering ruins of a district he has never visited, but remembers with hope and dread.

The dream of the smoke and the song bird.

The thrum and throb hangs in the humid night like an ache. Like the rheumatism in his joints which tells him that the dream has ended, that he is awake. The old man knows the sound—what it means—so he rises, knees cracking, from his cot. He wakes his daughter. His daughter wakes the children and her sleep-deprived husband.

Her husband wakes his neighbor. And so on.

Beyond the Seam lies the Meadow and the live fence. Beyond the fence lies the forest.

And the forest means safety.

But the fence means death.

* * *

TBC

AN: Thanks for reading! Now, onward.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Portions of this text have been lifted directly from _Catching Fire_, which belongs to Suzanne Collins. Not one character belongs to me. This makes me sad. However, it has been confirmed that The Hunger Games 3 will be released August 24, 2010 (title will be announced early next year), and that is a happy thought, indeed.

AN: As mentioned in the summery, _Redux_ is an expansion of my drabble _And So We Run, _a bit of wishful thinking about escape of my favorite ship_._ It may also be considered a sequel to _Beholden_ and _Repaid. _If you haven't read them, that's ok. It's not necessary to follow this story – just know that Gale is in Madge's debt for bringing him the morphling, and that he's not aware of this debt. (His mother, however, is very aware of it.) Also, I published a one-shot entitled _Love was a Fire Escape_, which was originally a part of this story. However, several plot shifts later, it is no longer a part of this story arc. The events in that short story do not necessarily coincide with this piece, though some elements have been retained.

Oh yeah…this is blatant Madge/Gale propaganda. Shippers, ye be warned.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_[Gale's_ _POV]_

_It's dark. Condensation drips from the black rock and I feel it land on the back of my neck, hear it sizzling as droplets land on my headlamp. I have no other lantern or any of my tools. I think that I should, but I'm not sure. Something isn't right. Where is my crew? _

_Leaves crunch beneath my boots and I am confused. Leaves in the mines? No…there are only leaves in the woods beyond the fence, or sometimes half-wilted, clinging to shriveled trees scattered over the Seam. I reach down and grab at the floor. In my hand I can feel the smooth, brittle membrane of an autumn leaf. It crackles between my index and thumb as I form a fist. What is happening?_

_I step forward. Then once more. _

_More crisp leaves and then – suddenly – sunlight. _

_I am in the woods after all, not far beneath the earth like I thought. Not in the pit. My heart leaps back to life, like a roe deer sprinting through a thicket._

_As I walk deeper into the woods, I try to figure out if I know this forest, or if I've climbed out through the other side of the mountains into a strange land. I walk, not knowing the way, yet following some instinct that pulls me like an invisible trailing vine. _

_The trees gradually grow familiar, hoary oaks and silver birches, as they thin out into a glade. Within the glade a small lake reflects the sun. Leaves float against the bank, but the middle is clear and gently rippling. Beyond the water stands a hut. I know this place; know the cabin, though I haven't been here since the day my back…_

_The door of the hut opens. A young woman with blue-black hair steps out. Katniss. She smiles that same smile that only belongs to the woods. And to me. _

_My heart stops. _

"_Welcome home," she calls. _

"_Catnip?"_

_I step forward so very slowly, one foot at a time, dazed by her appearance in the woods. Home? _

_As I draw nearer, almost across the glade, she says, "You told me we could make it."_

"_I did," I reply, bemused. _

_Katniss smiles again and I'm struck by it. Never seen her so soft. "You were right, Gale." _

_I was? Joy nearly unhinges me. We made it?_

_I'm almost to the door, reaching for her. She holds out her arms to me, but they are already full of cloth. Huh. Hadn't noticed that before, but now I'm terribly curious to see what is in the bundle she holds. _

"_See?" Katniss asks, and lifts a swath of fabric away. _

_I see pink skin and sleepy grey eyes winking open and close in the face of a baby. Our baby. Somehow I know this, even if I've never seen this child before in my life. _

_Wait. No. _

_I lift more of the fabric away from the baby's head with my coal-blackened hands and see the downy, white-gold wisps of hair curling around a pink ribbon. This can be no child of mine. No child of _ours_. _

_And I look up, eyes burning and furious, ready to demand the truth from Katniss. _

_But she's gone._

_Haymitch Abernathy stands in her place holding the baby now. It's crying and kicking its little legs around in the swaddling. He jiggles it a little in his arms, but it will not calm down. The unhappy squalls fill the glade and the pink ribbon falls to the ground in a pile of gold leaves. I reach down to pick it up, then searing pain shoots through my back as the woods melt away around a house that stands in the Victors' Village. Snow begins to fall overhead; and Haymitch sneers in the doorway, putrid breath visibly billowing toward me in the cold. _

"_Crazy girl." _

_...  
_

"Gah!" I cry and bolt upright in bed. My whole body is wracked with shivers and sweat.

The reek of Haymitch's breath outlasts the dream. I gulp clean air, willing it to clear the weird swirl of images. I gently swing my legs over the side of the thin mattress, rubbing the tender muscles in the center of my back. Make that three waking blows from Vick's bony knees tonight, and with them, the termination of three nightmares. They ranged from kaleidoscope images of yesterday's Hunger Games: of Katniss paralyzed in the arena, of pearls and lockets and kisses; to this strange manifestation of her betrayal. Golden-haired babies with my eyes or hers?

And Haymitch's cryptic words.

"_Urh_. Forget it," I whisper in the darkness. Willing myself to do just that.

I stretch my arms over my head and flex my feet as I yawn. Feels good to do that. Just move without damaging anything. Wiping grit from my eyes, I scan the bedroom for my family. Vick is still sound asleep on the narrow mattress we're sharing with Rory. Those two will sleep through anything. Across the room, Mrs. Everdeen sleeps in my mother's bed with her arm wrapped around Prim's narrow shoulders. The trundle is pulled out for my baby sister Posy and our mother Hazelle to share.

Only, Posy is alone under a pile of raggedy blankets.

Mom must be up getting things ready. My body's natural clock tells me it's too early to get up for work in the mines, but it's definitely morning. Very early morning. Even by my standards. Probably time to get up soon, anyway, if we're going to go through with our escape plan.

Katniss's words float through my mind.

"_President Snow personally threatened to have you killed."_

_Fear volts through my veins, but I've had plenty of practice with fear. Masking it, anyway. The emotion barely registers on my face. "Anyone else?"_

"_Well, he didn't actually give me a copy of the list. But it's a good guess it includes both our families." _

Thanks for the heads-up, I think, since I had to use that very conversation as leverage to convince Mrs. Everdeen to leave last evening. After what happened in yesterday's Games, Katniss isn't coming back to District 12. That's certain. So, there's no reason for us to stick around. No sense in making things easy for President Snow. I silently review the route we'll take to the Meadow, which part of the fence we'll try to breach. Hoping Snow will take his time targeting us for retaliation.

Instinctively, I grab under the bed.

My hand connects with the leather strap of my game bag. Rory and Vick also have makeshift packs stashed in the corner of the room along with the Everdeens' belongings. Everything's in them that we'll need to survive in the woods.

Mom comes in to the bedroom carrying another pack. Like my brothers', it's made out of an old pillowcase with two holes cut into each lip. She inserted a length of rope first through one hole, into the one on the opposite side, and so on in a square so that the rope cinches the mouth closed. She thrusts it at me without a word and I finish the knot for her. There's enough give on the rope to form a strap, like a messenger bag. Crude but efficient. I look inside and find more of the food and paper packets filled with loose tea that the Everdeens brought with them. She also packed the extra snap tins I bartered from my crew, as well as the few pieces of cutlery we own. There isn't much in the house, bare essentials, and most of it is in our five bags.

While I've been working on the rope, she's shaken the Everdeens awake and gotten the boys up.

Rory lets out a huge yawn. "Time to go?"

She's about to reply when someone bangs on the door.

We freeze.

"Peacekeepers?" Mrs. Everdeen whispers in alarm as she hastily finishes Prim's braid.

"I'll look," I say, grabbing a shirt to throw over my head. "Better put those away." I point to the bags in the corner and Vick runs to throw them under the bed.

I step out of the bedroom. One stump of a candle lights the only other room in our house, the common room, which serves as kitchen, living room, and space for Mom's laundry business. Carefully making my way around the large tub and scattered dynamite boxes we use for chairs, I open the door. It takes me a moment to register what I see.

It's not a gang of Peacekeepers. It's an exodus. Our narrow street is full of men, women, and children shouldering a few meager possessions and running. One or two break from the stream and pound on their neighbor's doors that don't stand open already.

And I can hear it. The tread of many feet over the packed earth. And something else. Something constant. A droning. What?

Before me stands my good friend Bristel, a member of my crew. A threadbare backpack hangs low on his back, but he looks like he's dressed for work. He looks surprised, for some reason.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," he says. "Good thing I decided to check."

I step out into the street. The air is warm and humid, pulsing with agitation and urgency. I can practically taste it, the way I can taste the end of my prey in the woods. "What's going on?"

"Planes." Bristel gestures over his shoulder. I step away from the house so I can see down a side street and look west to the hills beyond the mines. An orange strip lights up the sky.

Hell's teeth. "Fire?"

I stagger backward and bump into Bristel.

"D13 all over again, they're saying," he tells me matter-of-factly, like I'm asking about the weather.

My heart beats urgently in my chest. "How long have we got?"

"Who knows?" He shrugs. "It's not certain how many the Capitol sent. Some townsfolk just passed through saying Thread and his lot pulled out. They'll give the train long enough to clear the district. Half hour?"

Oh god. The realization sinks in slowly. Snow isn't content with targeting a family or two. He's taking out the whole district. And he didn't waste any time.

"Where are you headed?" I ask urgently, grabbing his arms.

Bristel points northwest. "Meadow. Everyone is."

I pull him inside by his coat. "They'll never make it over into the woods while the generator powers the fence."

"I know," he says. "Maybe they'll bomb the town first and take out the Power Station?"

Not likely.

I lower my voice so that Bristel has to lean in to hear me. I'm going out on a limb, but I think I know him well enough to trust him. And this might help both of us. "Listen, I talked the foreman into smuggling a canister of dynamite in exchange for a coat's worth of pelts and all the wild pennyroyal I could find, his wife just had their third set of twins…"

"Are you nuts?" he gasps.

"…hid the charges in the Everdeen's old place for a rainy day."

I finish and he stares at me like I'm about to voluntarily walk off a cliff. "Gale, you could have received a bullet for that if the nitro didn't detonate on you first. Don't you think you've earned enough trouble for a lifetime?"

Even for a miner living in the Seam, Bristel doesn't understand just how desperate our situation has become. What, with being targeted personally by the President, and all. Yeah, before Thread whipped me within an inch of my life, I wanted to stick around for the sake of the district folk who couldn't run, despite the threat. I guess I learned that the only people I can help are my family members, and maybe not even them. Bristel doesn't have anybody but our crew, so maybe he doesn't get that kind of desperation.

"Bristel, it's the only plan I have. Not like we had anything to loose if it didn't work," I admit, letting frustration and fear put a sharp edge on my words. "At least now we can blow our way through the fence. It'll break the circuit and everyone can clear out before the planes reach the town."

While he's considering this, my mother pokes her head timidly through the doorway of the bedroom.

"Gale?"

"It's Bristel," I tell her. "We need to leave. Now."

"What is it?" she comes into the room.

"D13," is all I have to say. Her eyes grow wide with comprehension and she's stumbling back into the bedroom.

"Lucky we were going to pull out anyway," I mutter wryly to Bristel.

"That's what Thom and I thought," he replies. "Seeing as you're high profile and all."

Even in a crisis, Bristel has time for sarcasm. That's what I like about him. People with edges, I can handle. But, it still throws me a little, how easily those two can read me. It's something I'll miss about them – male friends who just get it.

I smirk. "Yeah, Thread's my best friend. Anyway, better go see what's going on in there," I say, gesturing to the door my mother disappeared behind. "You can go on, if you want."

He shrugs and adjusts the straps on his shoulders. "Guess I'll stick with you."

I nod, feeling oddly relieved to have an extra set of hands to count on, especially Bristel's. "Fine. Just give us a moment."

Mom must have let on about the danger because everyone is dressed with their packs ready – wary and waiting – when I enter the room. Except for Posy, who has been sleeping soundly in her trundle bed the whole time. Her threadbare nightgown is on the floor. She's tired and whining as Mom coaxes her back into her clothes.

"It's morning, sweetie. Time to wake up," she soothes.

"It's nighttime, Mama. It's dark out."

I can't help grinning at her logic despite the dire straights we're in. She's a cute kid when she isn't cranky.

"Posy, hold still and let me pull your shirt on."

Her long, black hair is matted around her face. She tries to rub it away from her cheeks, but it's sticking to places where she's smudged her tears. "I'm tired," she whines with frustration.

Time is running out. Inside the house, I begin to hear the throb of the approaching airplanes growing near enough to hear inside the house. The shrill whistle of a train adds itself to the cacophony.

I touch mom's shoulder and she looks up from where she's kneeling beside Posy. I crouch down next to her.

"Listen, kiddo," I murmur in a soft voice I reserve only for my baby sister and, sometimes, Prim. "We have to go or we'll get in trouble. So listen to Mom and get your clothes on. I promise to carry you and you can sleep."

Her bottom lip pops out in a pout, but she lets Mom pull her arms through one of Vick's old, ratty sweaters. Actually, I'm fairly certain that it was my sweater once. As she's buttoning it on, Mom whispers, "How much time does Bristel think we have?"

I swallow, not wanting to answer – or add to her worry. "Half hour."

She takes a deep breath. "We can get the kids to the fence." She catches Mrs. Everdeens eyes and the latter nods her head. "Gale, I need to ask a favor of you. I need you to get the Undersee girl."

I feel my eyes pop. "What?" This is completely unexpected.

Mom stands up and faces me. I passed her up by a good few inches before I turned fifteen, but she has this mom thing about her that puts me in my place with a mere look.

"Please, just make sure Madge got out." She looks uncomfortable, like she isn't telling me something.

"People in the town already know," I say peevishly. "Mayor Undersee will get her out."

"His wife isn't well," Mrs. Everdeen murmurs worriedly. "He'll need more help than Madge can give him if they try to get her out."

This is madness. Run away from the direction we need to go, toward a strategic target, to check on a girl who may be well ahead of us?

"And for all we know the Undersees hopped on the train with their pal Thread."

Something flickers across Mom's face. Disapproval?

Prim's little voice pipes in, "Madge isn't one of them, Gale. She's our friend."

I don't like feeling backed into a corner like this, especially when I know what needs to be done to save my family – my only priority. "I don't have time to save everyone," I snarl. "I'm just one person. Getting you all out of here is the only thing that matters. And we'll be lucky if I can do that."

"I'll go myself, then," Mom says. "It's my obligation, anyway."

My mother and I have been through a lot together. Kept this family from starving; worked to keep them clothed and healthy for four and half years despite some pretty steep odds. She's been amazing and strong, working her hands raw from hours of washing other people's grimy clothes when she could have folded into herself and given up – or let me take all the burden. But she didn't. We've been a team.

Fire's raining from heaven and _this_ is when she decides to become difficult; to go counter to what's good for our family for some mysterious obligation? What could she possibly owe Madge Undersee that she'd risk her life or mine? It's enough to make a guy pull his hair out. But there's not time for that, either.

"You'll have to carry my pack until I can find you again. Take Bristel," I tell Mom with a growl. She looks confused for a moment and I grab my game bag out from under the bed.

Right. Like I would let her go herself, I think as I shove the bag into her empty hands.

I look at twelve-year-old Rory, then Vick, who only just turned eleven. If I don't make it back, it's up to these two to take care of Mom and Posy and the Everdeens. I regret not teaching Rory how to hunt. To survive in the woods like Dad showed me. Those Sundays with Katniss were more expensive than I thought.

For some reason I can't bring myself to make eye contact with Mom as I herd my brothers around me. Because I'm miffed about giving in or because I'm shamed by the look of disgust she gave me earlier, I don't know. "Listen up. I stashed some charges at the Everdeen's old place. Hid it under the back stoop where a chunk of mortar is missing. Bristel will know how to detonate it safely. Don't wait for me to get back. Just get into the woods. Understand?"

My brothers nod, wide-eyed, and I feel my stomach cramp with fear for my whole family, for how unprepared they are. I leave the room briskly, with them following in my wake.

I pull Bristel and Rory aside. "Listen, there's an old maple that stands out from the others not far from the E's place. The bottom branches just barely clear the top of the fence. Make for that tree and follow the deer trail back into the woods." I put my hand on Rory's shoulder. "The forest floor will start to rise until you run into a patch of blackberry bushes and then a sort of alcove in the rock. Take shelter under the ledge. I'll meet you, if I can." My eyes sweep over them. "Got it?"

They nod.

Families are still running in the direction of the farthest corner of the Meadow as I herd everyone outside. I don't know what good it will do any of them to reach the fences while it's live.

It's better than sitting in their shacks, waiting for the fire to fall. I guess.

Rory looks a question and I nod north toward the Everdeen place. I'm headed east toward the town.

"Now beat it."

"Good luck," he says.

"You, too."

* * *

**To be continued…**

Happy holidays! Thank you for reading.

p.s. any beta readers willing to take me on? My grammar is deplorable. I try to catch all the typos, but another pair of eyes helps so much.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Whoa. I'm really glad this chapter is finished. Definitely not a place my mind wants to be for a long period of time. FYI, this story is quickly becoming a bit darker than my other stuff. I set out to write a romance and action/adventure seems to have taken over for the time being.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_Gale's_ _POV_

"Turn around, you fool!"

"Not that way!"

"The Meadow!

These are a few of the things shouted at me as I dodge through side streets trying to avoid the congested Seam Road. The people passing me now are mostly from the town and stragglers from the Seam. Many of these men and women are bloody, I realize, and dragging wounded family members with them.

"Guns," someone is crying hysterically, "on the rooftops."

Were the Peacekeepers blocking their escape? What am I running into?

"Yeah, I get it. The Meadow," I shout when someone actually grabs my arm, trying to force me to follow the crowd toward the fence that encircles the district. I extricate myself from the man's grip, only to realize that it's Thom. He's carrying his gran on his back. Sweat trickles down his temples, staining the neck of his shirt, and he's breathing hard from the exertion.

"Gale?" he puffs.

"Let go, Thom."

He releases his grip on me. "It's your funeral." It's as close to pleading as he'll come.

"Tell me about it."

"Good luck."

We are swept apart.

When I clear the last row of miner's shacks in the Seam, I make for the main thoroughfare, Seam Road, again. It's the only direct route to town, and without the houses crowding everyone in, I can move quickly.

The first bombs fall over the Seam before I reach halfway. Those who are on the road with me can't help it. We have to stop and look. For a moment.

For all of them, their most direct path of escape is now impossible to follow. The people around me scatter in every direction, panicked and leaderless.

Some are mad enough to attempt road through the Seam.

But I am rooted to the spot, unable to go anywhere.

The disquieting feeling that I've seen this before creeps over me. Because I have. At least once a year when the Capitol recaps the destruction of District 13 at the end of the Dark Days. And last night when the arena blew up.

All bright lights and explosions.

But these are not incendiary bombs. No. I expect to see flames, but instead exteriors of my neighbors' houses collapse. The sounds of crumbling concrete, wood, and slate; and the shattering of glass echo after the bark of explosives fades.

A pang of fear leaves me feeling shattered and boneless. If only I could be sure that my family is…if…they've trusted me to keep them safe for so long, that I find it very hard to trust in their ability to save themselves.

Helpless little Posy. I promised to carry her…

The wails of thousands carry toward me on the wind, as though Fear himself conducted an invisible choir within the throat of every last man, woman, and child. Their voices drown the throb of aircraft, muting the cacophony of destruction. Eight thousand cries rise up to the sky, curling like the plumes of an incense offering to appease the ear of President Snow.

But he will not be appeased by their fear or their cries. It's their blood he wants. Not the devastation of their homes. That's simply a means to an end. And I realized that this is not the kind of destruction I expected. Surely, Snow won't be content with knocking down houses or mine shafts? Not when the Capitol is capable of total annihilation?

In some ways, the Capitol is so very predictable, so it confuses me that the strip of orange haze to the southwest is the only sign of fire.

Where is the rest of it?

This must be the first wave of planes dropping bombs designed to destroy buildings, exposing the flammable interiors so that the incendiary bombs can do their work spreading an uncontainable blaze. It's a waste of time, I think, as the rumble of destruction reverberates through the air. Every inch of this district is covered in a layer of coal dust, decades of it ground into every surface. Thread should have sent Nero Ashfield, Peacekeeper General, newsreel footage of the Hob arson as an example of just how combustible our home is.

We're lucky he didn't since it buys the district people time, as long as they can find shelter between explosions.

I'm still staring in awe as the shacks are shattered and destroyed when a bomb hits the school building nearby. It lies halfway along the road between the Seam and the town, since children from both must attend. Concrete and dirt shoot up and out, spraying dust and chunks of wall like lackluster fireworks.

My feet find that they can move again as one plane after another fly overhead. I run past the decimated school as the large coal shed in the yard catches fire.

The town is nearly deserted when I reach the first residential streets. Only the slowest remain: the elderly; the infirm; the widows with their small children in tow. Even some of the kids from the community home are still here. I have to clamp down the instinct to help the youngest and frailest along. Just focus on the target: the Mayor's home. Even then, I scan the faces of the people I pass, half-hoping that the Undersees will be among them.

They aren't.

I fall onto my knees when I pass through an alley into the square, tripped up by the corpse of a faceless man.

"Gyah!" I scramble backward away from his bloody form. My hand connects with the empty casing of a bullet that may have blown it away. Then a scream lodges in my throat as I take in the fellowship of death – corpses, riddled with bullet holes, strewn over the cobbles; figures leaning over the stocks in piles; or slumped against the gallows scaffolding. The storefronts are pockmarked, windows shattered. A child in his bedclothes slumps against the door jamb of the fruit stall, eyes open, a waxen observer of the macabre scene. His mother's bare feet rest on the threshold next to him.

And I remember the cries of the townspeople fleeing through the Seam. Peacekeepers _keeping_ the people from leaving, stationed on the rooftops till the planes came. Then it's a swift train ride to safety for their vigilance.

Red outlines my vision.

But they're gone, and I, too, must go.

No time for revenge. Not yet.

I get on my hands and knees, forcing limbs to cooperate and rise on my feet again, fleeing the bloody square. It's a straight path to the mayor's home from here, my feet know exactly where to go despite the alien appearance of the town. Habit, I guess. He lives in a circle of houses dedicated to district officials and their families, east of the main road connecting the Seam to the town. The merchants' houses fall away into an open, green space of manicured lawns. An old yet tidy sidewalk winds down along the paved road. Luxuries. Nobody around here has to worry about being run down and maimed by heavy carts carrying equipment and supplies to the mines.

Although in this district, even the street in the wealthiest part of town is marred by little weeds and creepers and cracks.

It's eerily silent on this side of the district when I reach Madge's home. The three-story mansion at the top of the circle of houses looks abandoned, but I bang on the front door just in case my mother asks if I made doubly sure.

I'm about to turn away when, to my astonishment, Mr. Undersee pulls open the door – ashen faced and anxious. A sheen of sweat reflects the candlelight flickering on a table inside of the house. He's gripping a backpack.

"What are you still doing here?" I bark, a scornful edge in my voice. Anyone in his right mind should be at the fence already. Including me. "Don't you know what's going on?"

Something sparks in his eyes. Hope? He grabs my arm, dragging me inside the door. "You're Gale Hawthorne? The boy from the woods? Thank god. You can take Madge with you."

"Hey!" My boots catch on the threshold, but I stop myself before falling. "Take Madge? Aren't you going to—"

"Not now," he says, voice breaking. "If you can take Madge…I can stay with my wife…she's too sickly…" he struggles to find the words.

"I get it," I snap. Before I showed up, he prepared to abandon his wife in order to save his daughter. Now he's going to abandon his daughter to die with his wife. Grim. But, if I didn't have time to argue before, then I'm running out of credit, now. "Where's your daughter?"

"Upstairs. Give me a minute."

"Hurry."

Undersee takes the steps upward three at a time. He disappears around a corner of the landing and I hear some scuffling around and a soft, confused voice. Waiting makes my skin crawl, so I leave the foyer in favor of the kitchen down the hall. I help myself to whatever I can find that will travel well. Someone's already picked through the place, judging by the spilled canisters and cupboard doors hanging ajar. Still, I grab some apples, a half-loaf of bread, packets of tea. Not like anyone here's going need it before the hour is out. At the last second I grab a steak knife and the tea towels hanging by the stove and throw everything into an empty potato sack I found in the pantry. Heavy footsteps on the creaking stairs announce that Undersee and his daughter are ready. I meet them at the door. Even Mrs. Undersee has come down.

I've never seen her before. Her cheeks are sunken in. Wasted. If she ever resembled her daughter, it was a long time ago.

This woman wouldn't make it a day in the woods.

Let's hope her daughter inherited her husband's constitution.

The side of her Madge's face is creased, from her pillowcase, perhaps. She has only just woken up, it's clear. Her boots are half-tied and, from the looks of it, she's wearing the first things they could pull from her dresser.

"Gale?" She looks at me groggily. "What's going on?"

"Time to go." I hold out my hand to her, ready to drag her along, but she hesitates just out of reach and turns to her parents.

"You're coming?" She pleads with them.

They each embrace her instead of answering and then practically shove her at me. I grab her hand before she has a chance to try anything, and usher her out the door.

Smoke suffuses the air and in the west is full of flames. The Seam.

We're both disoriented for a moment.

The firebombing has begun. There's no way we'll make it to the Meadow by shortcutting that way.

I take the opportunity to shove the sack of food into her backpack. The shadow of a low-flying aircraft drifts over the lawn and I hiss in her ear, "Run, Madge."

She's clumsy, probably still waking up, and I have to stop to let her regain her footing even before we reach the end of the circle.

"Wait, I—"

The shrill sound of whistling and the reverberations of impact swallow whatever she was going to say. They're pulverizing the town. A fire begins in the southeast even though the firebombing hasn't moved on from the Seam. They struck the granary, perhaps? It only needs a small, accidental spark…

The fire spreads to the buildings, feeding off the coal dust. We're far enough away, but it's going to consume the part of town containing the Peacekeepers' quarters, Thread's house, and eventually, the Power Station.

And this is a good thing as long as we keep ahead of the fire. But I can feel it on the back of my neck already. The air is sooty and sticky, drawing the dirt to our skin and keeping it there. The fire in the Seam and the fire in the town drive the temperature up on an already muggy summer night…morning? We're both sweating and panting. Madge begins to look like a chimney sweep. I probably look worse.

I concentrate on finding a route through the destruction. We cut northwest through the side streets, perpendicular to the line of fire. One house to the next. Over fragmented concrete. Always opposite the conflagration.

"Oh my god," Madge whimpers. We reach the main thoroughfare connecting the Victors' Village to the square, giving us a clear view of the flames that are spreading toward it, as well as the massacre.

She starts panicking, speaking so fast I can barely make out the garbled sentences. She didn't know they were burning the place down, didn't know why her parents pulled her out of bed. She can't leave them to die.

"Come on," I'm pulling her behind me and I feel her dig in her heels.

"What about my parents?" Madge shouts.

She's fighting me. We don't have time for this. The heat of the fires chokes me and I can feel it begin to blister my skin.

"It's too late for them." It's brutal, but it's the truth. Across the square, the whole Justice Building is now ablaze.

Something, the sight or my words, makes her go wild. "No! I have to go back." She starts kicking at me and I lift her up in my arms, ready to run with her like she's a larger version of Posy. Her nails rake my arms. "_Please_, Gale, I have to save them," she pleads.

I can't hold onto her while she's flailing around, so I drop her before grabbing her roughly by the shoulders. "I said run, Madge. I have no intention of burning alive tonight. Just get to the fence. After that, I don't care what the hell happens."

She looks at me like I'm a monster. Maybe I am. But I'm not the only one out here tonight. There are soldiers in planes above us dropping explosives and they don't care who they land on.

I, however, have a family waiting for me at the fence and I'll be damned if don't make it because of her.

Something enormous explodes behind the Justice Building. Even at this distance, it sends us flying on our backs.

Smoke plumes upward into the sky. The Power Station?

Smoldering debris flies everywhere and I feel it gash my face. Cinders catch on Madge's hair and I swat it off with my bare hand. She's no longer fighting when I pull her up with me. Her eyes are fixed behind my back, her mouth gaping open.

"Wha—" I turn to look and see that the burning façade of the Justice Building, or what is left of it, is careening forward in fragments. Behind it, the fiery remains of the Power Station stand. It reminds me of a giant version of the oil drum fires that the Peacekeepers use to keep warm during winter patrols.

"Hey, that's good. That's good!" I whoop. "No Power Station: no current for the fence!"

A grin spreads across my face with this realization. I must look deranged or something because it seems to unnerve her and she backs away.

I grab Madge's hand again, feeling like we might have a chance, and start making a beeline north for the Victor's Village. Beyond that lies the fence and I figure it'll be safer to climb over and skirt along the edges of the fence to where my family is waiting than to keeping running within the district to the Meadow. Even if it is the shorter way.

Madge screams as a plane flies directly overhead again. Without thinking too much about it, I push her into an empty house with only two and a half walls left standing. The bomb lands on the row of homes one block ahead.

The air is noxious and smoke stings our eyes. They're streaming tears, leaving ghastly smudges down our faces. I make her lean forward while I grab the towels from her bag and hold it up to my nose. I gesture for her to do the same with the other one. It makes breathing a little easier.

Water would be good right now.

The planes move on to another section, but I have to find a safer street for us to follow. Flames threaten to block our every turn, though. The heat pinches my skin

Finally, the houses thin out as we approach the Victor's Village and the air clears, if only by a degree or two. Madge is slowing down and I drag her behind me.

She pulls her hand loose from mine once we're clear of Haymitch's house. The fence isn't far.

"Gale, I have to stop," she gasps, dropping the towel she's been holding over her mouth and nose. "I can't keep running."

"You'll do what you have to," I say, stooping to pick up the towel. The air is cleaner here and so I put both back into her bag while she's doubled over and panting.

Madge waves me onward. "I'll catch up."

My mother isn't going to accept that I got her to the Victor's Village and then left her behind. I look around, trying to consider my options. The first three houses in the Village are burning, sending up triple columns of smoke.

With a slight pang of satisfaction, difficult to curb, I notice one of them is Mellark's.

"Climb up," I tell her.

"What?" She glances at Haymitch's roof, confused.

I gesture behind me. "Get on my back. I'll carry you to the fence. After that, you can do whatever you want."

She sighs. "I don't know why you bother."

"I don't either. All I know is that my mom wants you out of the district alive. So that's what's she's getting."

"Your mother sent you to get me?"

I shrug.

A look of deep unhappiness clouds her sooty face. "All right," she grumbles. "How do I get up?"

I crouch down and she puts her arms around my neck from behind. "Hook your legs around my hips."

And we're off. It's only a little slower this way. I'm used to moving quickly with a bag full of game or all of my mining equipment. She doesn't weigh too much more than that, even with her backpack.

The manicured lawn falls away into a mangled thicket that acts as a hedge between the town and this part of the fence. Brambles and thorns catch at our clothing, pulling out threads and scratching our skin. The vegetation grows and thickens into a copse. Madge uses the arm that isn't anchoring her to my shoulders to push evergreen branches away from my face, since mine are busy holding her up.

And then we're there. I have to pull up short and almost fall backward as my nose nearly collides with the chain links of the fence. It rises twenty feet in the air, fringed with coiling barbed wire. After Thread moved in, Peacekeepers spent over a month last winter reinforcing the bottom with concrete to make sure nobody…as in Katniss and I…could access the woods and the potential sources of food.

Madge slips down to the ground and sits there, the straps of her pack slip off her shoulders. She looks up at me with tired eyes. "Is it…"

"Shouldn't be. We both saw the Power Station go up." I listen as best I can. The telltale hum of the current is missing. "Think you can climb it?"

"I could climb it," she says weakly, "but what about the barbed wire?"

Hm. She has a point. I kick the concrete slabs with the side of my boot. "No going under."

Madge stands up and brushes herself off. "Well…it probably won't feel good, climbing over the wire, but I guess we should try."

_Trying_ sounds a bit shady as I picture her dangling, hands shredded, from the wire twenty feet above the ground.

"Look, a bunch of people were going to the Meadow. My family's there and they had a way to get through. We can loop northwest, skirting the fence, and see…" I swallow against the possibility of failure, "…if it worked."

"How did they—"

"Let's go before the fire reaches the thicket."

"Okay…but isn't the Seam on fire?" she asks skeptically. "It's between us and the Meadow."

"We'll go through the northernmost corner of it. If the fire's too bad, we'll brave the wire," I say. "Ready?"

She nods and I pull her onto my back again.

And so we run.

The copse thins out where Peacekeepers have cut away the encroaching greenery pushing against the fence. We pass over the train tracks that used to lead north toward District 13 before the Dark Days. Only the metal rails remain after seventy-five years of neglect. The parallel lines of rusted metal appear to end randomly into the wall where Thread patched up the north gate, seamlessly integrated into the fence. No one getting in. No one getting out.

At least not that way.

"Look!" Madge cries, pointing at the sky.

I nearly drop her on her head, thinking we're under attack. Her arms squeeze around my neck as she tries to stay up and I choke.

But when I do look up after she's done strangling me, it's to see that the fire bombers have ceased, flying south, away from the district. Away from the Meadow and away from us.

My relief is tempered by the great blaze of the district. I gaze at the fires too long, at the intermittent bursts and blasts as the fires consume the highly combustible objects within the town. When I look away, spots fill my vision.

It's Madge who pulls me away this time. She doesn't want to see any more.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she's blinking a lot, which makes sense with all the smoke and soot in the air. But it's the way she's trying to rub around her eyes without it looking like she is that tips me off. Vick does the same thing when he cries.

Dealing with crying people is not my forte.

"I think I can run on my own, now," she murmurs.

I shrug like I haven't noticed that she's sniffling. "Sure."

Madge follows me into the outskirts of the Seam. A long time ago folks started using this corner as a dump and hardly anyone builds a house up here. The bombers must have focused on destroying the most concentrated parts of the Seam because the edges of the district are barely touched, leaving us with a somewhat safe path to follow. But we're still close enough to see the destruction and feel the flames that reach high into the sky.

The hard-packed earth of the Seam fades into creepers and tussocks of grass. We're finally running along the fence in the Meadow. The ground is turned up and piles of abandoned belongings are strewn all over the place.

Then the line of bodies begin.

Men and women lie stiff in the grass, blind eyes open. Desperate fools who dared the fence.

Madge is frozen at the sight of them.

"Keep going."

"They're burnt." She repeats this several times.

"Come on, Madge. Just a little further." I grip her shoulders, slowly leading her forward. Walking is better than nothing at this point. Her eyes never leave the bodies, though.

After a mile I can see the gap in the fence where Bristel detonated the dynamite. I crow.

This seems to startle Madge out of her stupor. "What?"

"We just have to get through that hole in the fence and we're safe," I tell her exultantly.

"Let's run," she replies.

We've just ducked through the mess of tangled wires and disappeared into the tree line when I hear it.

"This can't be happening."

A single plane returns out of the darkness and the smoke.

The forest floor seems to jump up at us and it takes me quite a while to realize that it's people who have been hiding in the underbrush getting to their feet.

And they're running.

A sharp whistle rends the air.

"Go, go, go," I shout, pushing her onward. She does, sprinting with a fresh surge of adrenaline. Soon we're in the middle of the mass of people, being jostled in every direction. I begin to lose sight of her. "Madge!"

Then the forest truly does jump and everyone with it.

The force of it causes my body to spin around.

Debris hits me from the side. I fall on my back, pinned to the ground by my right arm. The wind is knocked out of me and my ears feel like ten-ton weights are trying to push out through my skull.

I can't see my arm; but I can smell, distinct from that of coal and wood and fabric, the odor of smoldering flesh.

* * *

**TBC**

AN: Ho boy. Gale…will need to redeem himself in later chapters, that's for sure. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3

_Thanks to my beta, Ceylon205, for catching errors! _

**Chapter 3**

_Gale's_ _POV_

I can't see my arm; but I can smell, distinct from that of coal and wood and fabric, the odor of smoldering flesh.

Fortunately, it all fades away.

…

Slowly, the world zooms back into focus. The crowns of trees wheel overhead.

I wish they wouldn't…doesn't feel good. But there's something I need to do. Let me think. If only the throbbing and the heaviness weighing me down would ease up for a minute.

Somehow I am covered in forest. I can see it piled on my chest.

Someone hovers overhead. I close my eyes, willing the dizziness to go away so that I can see properly. Taking a few steadying breaths – bad idea – ouch—and open my eyes.

"Gale!" My brother bends over me. His hands push debris off of my chest. I can't hear properly, but I can read my name on his lips.

Rory? He's supposed to be safe behind the ledge with our family, not standing in front of me with twigs in his hair and cuts on his face. With a pang, I know that he should _not_ have a split lip or blood trickling from his ear. This is wrong – what am I supposed to be doing?

Then just like that, he's gone. Rory? I try to call his name, but it comes out as a cough.

Around me, everything looks like it's been picked up and thrown in disparate directions. Small shrubs and leaves flutter to the ground like ticker tape, and sides of trees are missing. Some of them are lodged in other trees nearby.

Oh yeah. Those rat bastards bombed the forest.

It takes a moment for this to register, a moment for me to panic and try to sit up so that I can find the rest of my family. Only, I can't move. Something is wrong and it's annoying me.

What is it?

My ears still haven't popped. I can't lift my head to look around me, can only stare around at the trees and the grey, pre-dawn sky and think of Rory's pale, scuffed face. Where is he?

I need help, but the words won't come. Why won't they come? Each breath is shallow and painful. I swallow over and over again, willing my ears to clear so I can hear. My mouth is so dry, though, that all I can do is cough until I feel like I'm heaving. The whole time pain lances through my torso and crackles over my skin.

I need water. Badly.

Who knows how long I lay on the ground before I see my mother's alarmed face. She looks a mess with her hair askew and leaves stuck in it. An angry red welt intersects with her collar bone like something hit her. Hard. I can feel her gently lift my head, resting it on her lap, and lightly run her fingers over my forehead and cheek. She's murmuring something to me, I can tell by the rhythm of her lips, but it barely registers with my ears, even as I see her call for Bristel. It sounds like my head is in a bubble or under water.

At some point, Mom holds a tin canteen to my lips and I swallow the tepid water. She won't let me drink as quickly as I'd like. My throat still feels raw, but cleaner, at least. I down the whole thing, knowing that I can find water easily. I may be disoriented, but this is my forest. Just…need time to collect myself first.

Slowly, the bubble feeling over my ears lifts and I can hear.

Meanwhile, Bristel and Rory return. Bristel's gesturing at the fallen ash tree beside me and talking too fast for me to make out what he's going on about. Rory pushes him aside and explains that it's actually on me, and I've been too out of it to realize. They get to work removing the section of the trunk that's pinning me down. I am lucky because the majority of the weight landed on another tree, barely propping it up against my chest, keeping it from crushing me.

Once they get it off, I can see that my chest is raw, scraped up by the bark and debris. Even though the black and purple marks won't show until tomorrow, I feel the bruised muscle, the bruised bones. It hurts to breathe even without the weight on me. My right arm is not good. Through the shredded remains of my shirt, splinters the size of pencils protrude from my skin. I have a hard time acknowledging that this is my arm. It seems to belong to someone else, just floating by my side, but not attached.

And then there's the livid patches where cinders landed on my face, neck, and upper body. They smell worse than they feel, which is pretty bad.

"Should we move him like this?" Mom asks Mrs. Everdeen who appeared shortly after Bristel and Rory did.

"If more planes come then we're going to want some shelter now," Bristel tells them.

Mrs. E considers the situation. "Let me remove some of the larger splinters and find something to brace his arm. I can finish when we're in a safer place."

After rummaging in a pack for her medical instruments, which unnerve me more than the wood sticking out of my arm, she starts working. Everyone knows better than to speak to her while she goes into her zone, but I wish someone would say _something_.

I need a distraction from the pain. Looking up, I see that Mom is staring at my arm, off in her own thoughts as she runs her fingers absentmindedly through my hair. No help there.

With my head propped up on her lap, I can see more of my surroundings. And we're not the only ones here. People are moving all around us. The sound of their flight, the blur of movement, and the pain in my body overwhelm me and I am forced to close my eyes against it.

"Okay, Gale?" Rory asks.

"Fine," I reply through gritted teeth.

"Sure." I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

I peek out at him, needing to keep the conversation going. "How is it that I'm a human pincushion and you all walked away with minimal damage?"

Rory grins. "Don't worry; you'll live."

"Says who?"

"Well," he says thoughtfully, "when you were really bleeding to death you didn't talk so much."

I snort, but it sounds more like a cough. "Where's Vick and Posy?"

"Prim has them behind a tree somewhere. Mom doesn't want the kids to see you till Mrs. Everdeen cleans you up some more."

The _kids_, huh. Funny how I still lump him into that category. Maybe it's time to rethink things? "They're okay?"

"Fine," he mimics.

"Sure. Thought I told you to get to the ledge," I mumble, still clenching my teeth because Mrs. E is poking me with something cold and sharp. I don't want to look.

"We couldn't. I mean, we tried," Rory replies. "Too many people in the way."

I hadn't thought of that. "So what happened?"

"We found the Everdeen's old place and Bristel got the dynamite out okay. By the time we made it to that maple tree, hundreds of people lined the fence and we had to push our way through. Bristel kept walking with his arms held out." Rory chuckles a little. "He carried the canister like it's a baby with a dirty nappy or something."

"It's dangerous stuff, Rory," I remind him, although the picture amuses me, too.

"Yeah, okay," he says, unfazed. "Anyway, people kept throwing things at the fence, rocks and shoes and stuff, to break the circuit after some idiots tried to climb and got crispified."

I cringe at Rory's terminology.

"'Course, we didn't see any of that happen. Folks figured out pretty fast that they wouldn't get out that way and that we were trapped. People who weren't throwing stuff were milling around in everybody's way, all panicked. Bristel finally elbowed his way through and made us stand back. It blew a hole as big as the fence is tall. That killed the current, too. Then people stampeded through the gap, shoved and stepped on each other, climbing the fence. Some idiot lost his pants on the barbed wire. The Seam was on fire by then and Mom was afraid of the Meadow catching, but she made us stay back, anyway, until most of the people cleared out. We only just got through not that long ago."

"So how'd you know to find me, then?" I ask.

"I didn't," he replies. "When the plane came back we sort of scattered to find shelter. You're just lucky that I almost stepped on your face trying to find Mom."

The conversation is helping but Mrs. Everdeen brings my attention back to my arm. Only the small splinters, about the size of Vick's pinky finger, have been removed, which does not bode well for my pain threshold. "Gale, I have to remove quite a large piece of wood. You should brace yourself," she says in a clipped tone.

"Should I hold your hand or something?" Rory asks.

I scowl. "I'm not having a baby."

Rory's eyes sweep to my side and he swallows loudly. "Might as well." He takes my hand anyway and I almost smile, but then I feel the drag of the wood and…I grit my teeth against every foul word I've ever learned.

Without meaning to, I move my arm away from the source of pain.

"Bristel, hold him still," Mrs. E orders.

I feel pressure on my arm and the pain continues as more wood fragments are removed. My back arches in reaction to it, and every muscle clenches.

"Breathe, Gale," she reminds me.

It comes out in staccato hisses.

Sweat drips down my forehead when Mrs. E stops her ministrations and I open my eyes again. "Well, the bone is sound and the protruding pieces are out, but I'll have to look for more splinters beneath the skin when the light is better. Once I put some bandages on his arm we can move him." She's talking to my mother.

"And the burns?" Mom asks.

"Not life-threatening. I can put a salve on to sooth the damaged skin."

Bristel helps me slowly sit up. Sharp pains spasm through my ribs and I gasp. Mrs. E wraps my bleeding arm and then gently probes the right side of my chest with her fingers.

"Not broken," she pronounces. "But very bruised and scraped. You're lucky."

"Yeah, that's me," I mutter. "Let's get out of here."

Mom calls for Prim and she comes out from behind a tree a few yards away with Vick and Posy holding her hands. When Posy sees me she runs, throwing herself in my lap.

"Gale!"

"Ach!" Tears sting my eyes as her little body smashes against my ribs. I'm glad to see her in one piece, but hell's teeth, that hurts. "Hey, kiddo," I gasp.

She gives me a wet kiss on the cheek.

I narrowly avoid a second one. "Don't, Posy, my face is dirty and so is yours." A smudge of dirt colors her forehead and some scrapes from gravel, not wood. "What's this?" I ask, skimming over the abrasion with my finger.

"Rory dropped me," she says.

I glare at Rory.

"What? She wiggles," he shrugs.

"Can you carry me now?" she asks with large, soulful eyes. The guilt is overwhelming.

"Maybe for a little bit…"

"Not today, Posy. You're brother is hurt." Mom pulls Posy off my lap and Rory and Bristel help me to my feet. I look around. The forest eaves have emptied except for the injured and the friends and families who linger to help them.

And the dead, of course.

"We're all here, then," I say.

Mom looks me in the eye. "Madge?"

"She got out," I grouse. My mother's keen interest in the mayor's daughter rankles me, and I want her to leave me alone about it.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know, I lost sight of her and then a tree fell on me," I reply testily, tired of my role as Madge's keeper. "Madge ran on like I told her to. She'll be fine wherever she is, I bet."

Mom frowns, but what can she do about it? Madge isn't here and she knows she's already pushed for more than is reasonable. She drops it.

I take my game bag back, even though it kills to carry it, and the others shoulder their packs. We make for the ledge. The deer trail is trampled into oblivion and the forest shattered, but I don't need it to find my way. I know this place like the back of my hand. It doesn't matter if I haven't been to the ledge in months, I'll never forget.

At first, the going is difficult, climbing over fallen trees, through brambles. Irregular movement and heavy breathing jostles my bruised ribs, but I try to ignore it with the promise that our destination isn't far off. The way gets easier as the sun rises and fills the sky with light, and we can see better. Eventually, the forest floor climbs into the hills surrounding the district. The plane didn't bother going any deeper into the woods, so the path to our destination is clearer.

Even so, Vick keeps tripping over exposed roots and entangling himself in trailing rhododendron. And more often than not, his own feet. The kid is tired and shell-shocked, so I don't scold him for being clumsy.

Every once in a while I look back to see how my charges are faring. The moms look worn out, but not ready to give up. The kids follow silently, except whenever Vick falls. Posy is asleep riding piggy back on Rory, who traded his pack with Mom. At the tail end of the procession, Bristel looks around, distrustful of the natural surroundings. I slow down, letting the others walk ahead of me.

When Rory passes by I say, "Posy's drooling on you."

"Better not be," he mutters dispassionately. But I see a slight smile on his face.

Finally, Bristel catches up. "Worried?" I ask.

"Nah," he shrugs. "Just keeping an eye out."

"It's all right. The wild dogs live deeper in."

His eyes pop. "Wild dogs?"

I shrug. "And the black bears, well, they're too busy digging for grubs to bother with us."

"Bears?" he frowns.

"Sure. Make good eating if you can bring one down." Then I reply thoughtfully, "Although, it not usually worth the claws in the backside."

Bristel looks a bit white around the edges, so I walk on up the line again with a quiet chuckle. I don't know what it is, but as the sun rises, so do my spirits. Stupid, really. My body aches all over, like someone ran me down with a pit pony and my family's still in danger. I've seen some of the most heinous destruction and murder imaginable. Our home is gone. But I can't help it. All of the worry just slides off of me in this moment. The woods have that effect.

We walk for another mile and then the incline levels out some. And there it is: the ledge surrounded by blackberry bushes.

"Well, this is it," I say, stopping so they can file past into the alcove.

Mom brushes past me and gently squeezes my left arm. I didn't tell her that this is where Katniss and I used to meet up, but she knows.

"So now what?" Rory asks as Mom pulls the still-sleeping Posy off his back. I try not to laugh as he feels the back of his shirt for wet spots.

"I want to take another look at your arm, Gale," Mrs. Everdeen says. "And perhaps wrapping your chest will ease the pain."

"Water first," I reply, none too keen to continue with treatment.

Prim and Vick pull the canteens out of the sacks and pass them around. When the water is gone, I take Bristel and Rory to the stream not far from the ledge. They end up filling the canteens without my help after bending down and lifting result in painful spasms in my side. Then we head back.

Prim and Mrs. E are putting together sandwiches with a loaf of bread they brought and some hard sausage. I'd forgotten about food, but as soon as I see it my stomach starts rumbling. None of us have eaten since last night and after all the running and near death experiences, I feel like eating a whole deer myself.

When we put the canteens down Mom hands Vick the bottle of iodine. He gets a kick out of dropping in the solution, but I notice that his hands are shaking.

I catch Mom's eye.

"He'll be okay," she mouths.

Poor kid.

I crouch down by Posy, who's propped up against the pack full of blankets, and gently shake her awake. "Hungry?"

"I want to go home," she pouts, reaching for me.

"Sorry, baby." I run my fingers over her matted hair, pulling out a leaf. "How about a sandwich instead?"

We eat the sandwiches. They aren't enough, but the meal holds us over until we're safe enough to light a fire and rested enough to cook something heartier.

Unfortunately, there's no knowing what else will happen today.

"I vote for taking a breather," Bristel says after swallowing the last bit of crust.

"Me, too," Prim replies. She looks worn out. I give her an encouraging smile because she really has held it together. Katniss would be proud. She returns it with a wan smile of her own.

Then I notice Mrs. E eyeing my bandages. A few splinters couldn't do any real damage, could they? I mean, not like being whipped or blown to pieces. But she makes me sit there while she removes the dressings and probes for more wood, lecturing about infection.

It hurts despite the painkiller tablets she gives me. I've always hated splinters. To make it worse, everyone sits around us, watching while I try not to squirm.

Then Posy decides to help and comes at me with some leaves she's mashed up.

"How about you just hold my hand, Posy. That will make it feel better," I say.

Rory snorts.

"Shut up," I snap, but there's no bite in it.

"I think that's all of them," Mrs. E murmurs after about twenty minutes of digging in my shredded skin with tweezers. I start scooting away. "I should wrap your ribs, too, Gale."

"Oh," I reply, not bothering to mask my lack of enthusiasm.

She helps remove my ragged shirt by cutting it away, because it hurts to raise my arms, and well, the thing's beyond saving. It's a muggy day, and I opt to go shirtless hereafter. Usually, I try to keep a shirt on, what with the jigsaw pattern on my back – compliments of Thread – but I'm sweaty and smelly and in pain. And, really, who gives a damn?

"Oh, Gale," Mom breathes as she sees the reddened skin that's been exposed to the flames of District 12. "You're sunburned!"

I look at her like she's crazy. When would I get a chance to get sunburned when I go to the mines before sunup and arrive home after sundown? She should know that. "It's not from the sun."

"Is it from the fire? How close to it did you get?" Rory asks. Of course, they only saw the blazes from a distance, which I'm thankful for.

"We were in it," I reply crossly, staring pointedly into a clump of mountain laurels. I'm still angry about my mother's willingness to sacrifice me and our family's safety for a person wholly unconnected with us. Even if, in the end, everything turned out okay. So far.

"How'd you manage to get out?" Bristel asks.

So I tell them about racing through the town in as few words as possible, glossing over the massacre in the square. Rory tries to hide the excitement he feels from the story, but there's no mistaking the way his eyes light up when I describe the explosions. I suppose if I hadn't been there I would feel like it was an adventure, too.

"Mayor Undersee opted to stay with Mrs. Undersee," I finish. "Seemed pretty set on it, actually."

"I thought he might," Mrs. E whispers. "Poor Marigold, she's declined quite a bit over the years."

I didn't realize that Mrs. Everdeen knew Mrs. Undersee, but I guess it makes sense. They were both part of the merchant crowd. Mrs. E's parents owned the apothecary shop while the Donners, Madge's grandparents, owned the sweet shop – which I only know because of Katniss. They share the characteristic blond hair and blue eyes, even a similar look of worn despondence. Must be a town thing, I decide: the inability to swallow hardship. Pushing it down where nobody can see it, I feel a little pride for the Seam flare in my chest. We're survivors.

"But Madge is okay, right?" Prim asks, shaking me from my reverie.

"She's out, anyway." I half-shrug. "Probably about as okay as we are."

"Or less," my mother replies. "I hope she isn't alone."

I let it drop. My chest is wrapped tightly and I'm exhausted. While Prim and her mother look over the rest of the kids and Bristel for cuts and bruises, Mom starts pulling out blankets. I try to help her, but she shoos me away. Posy starts to get in her way, too.

"Come on, Posy." She holds my hand again and we walk to the end of the ledge, overlooking the forest. I describe the trees and shrubs to her, all the names that Dad and Katniss taught me. She knows the Boxelders. We had one growing in our backyard. She and Vick still play with the "helicopters," the name they gave to the winged pods, squeezing out the seeds or dropping them off a pile of boxes to watch them spin. But the red oaks, sugar maples, and dogwoods are new to her. And the forest floor is covered in huckleberry bushes, laurels, rhododendrons, ferns and less savory shrubs like poison oak. Almost level with us, a brace of red-tailed hawks circle over the tuliptrees. These are my favorite trees with their broad green leaves and strange colored flowers. Even down in the valley, their massively tall crowns reach high over the ledge. "The flowers smell like cucumbers," I tell her.

I pick some of the blackberries off of the bush nearby and she squeals with delight because she didn't know berries grew on bushes, thought they just appeared out of my game bag every once in a while. Then I realize that it's her first time in a forest – it's everyone's first time. I mean, I _know_ this, but it really hit me just then. It reminds me of the first time out here with my dad, of the feeling of freedom that welled up in me, no longer stifled by poverty or the fence or the Capitol. A whole opportunity, as well as danger, unfolded before me that day. And it's sad that my family, the Everdeens, and Bristel had to wait so long for this freedom. And with the way things were going with Thread; Rory, Vick, Prim and Posy, our moms, might never have gotten this experience. Unbelievable.

The sun is directly overhead now. Noon. I could sit like this for hours, talking about the woods, but Posy starts to nod off in my lap when Mom comes to get her. Behind us, our little camp is pretty much assembled.

Our blankets are lined up, with folded sweaters or packs for pillows. I scoot into the empty spot next to Prim, who is wiggling uncomfortably on the uneven ground. "You okay?"

She shakes her head. "Just thinking about Katniss and Lady."

"I'm sorry we couldn't bring your goat," I reply. What can I begin to say about Katniss?

"I know…you couldn't help it," she whispers in a watery voice. "Is this where Katniss used to meet you?"

I nod. "Yep."

"Gale, do you think she's dead?"

Something like a vice squeezes my heart. I don't want to answer that question. I don't think Prim wants it, either, because she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

Exhaustion permeates every cell of my body, but I can't fall asleep. Instead, I'm looking over my flock. Posy fared the best out of all of them and she's curled up between Vick and Rory like a rabbit in a warren, as though the bombings were of no consequence. Vick, though, won't let go of Mom's hand, even if he is eleven years old. He's cuddled up next to her and almost cried when he thought she was going to lie down somewhere else. I can hear him shaking in his sleep.

Everyone rests through the afternoon. Eventually I vacate my niche between Rory and Prim. Taking the unmarked path to the stream, I strip down when I get there and wade in. Wounds aside, I don't look too bad as far as the dirt quota is concerned, but then my judgment of cleanliness is tainted by working in the mines. It's hard to look worse, to feel grittier, to smell fouler than a man does coming out of the pit after twelve hours of pounding at the coal face.

Although, ironically, food always seems to taste better after it's been in the pit. I can't really explain it, but I remember my dad saying the same thing.

Should have brought some soap, I muse as I rinse off some of the sweat and grit. I try not to dampen my bandages and fail. I run my fingers through my hair, massaging out the ash and debris. Water drips down into my face from the black strands that are getting too long. Eventually I'm as clean as I'll ever be with just water. The stream is cool, nicely offsetting the heat of the day and soothing my aches. And it's good, clean water from the mountains. Not the nasty tap water from home that needs to be boiled before drinking. I wish I could swim, but that would be asking for more pain than I am willing to take. So I wade out of the stream and stretch out naked on the bank to dry. For a moment I worry about one of the girls coming down here, but I figure after the morning we've had, nobody's going to be stirring, let alone wandering around, any time soon. And I guess I'd hear them.

The songbirds fled with the bombing and the woods are eerily quiet. Alone, my thoughts crowd around me. Without the fever of escape as a distraction, it's too quiet to hold them at bay. Guiltily, it's not thoughts of Katniss that interrupt my solitude – it's Madge. You'd think my mind would be taken over with thoughts of my murdered best friend. Honestly though, there's nothing I can do for Katniss, and my pragmatic mind is already moving toward what needs to happen next, even if my heart isn't ready to let her go. And I might be annoyed with my mother for harping on it so much, but now I wonder if I should have done more by Madge. Maybe tried to look for her instead of rushing off with my family as soon as my arm could manage the move? Maybe if I'd held onto her instead of pushing her on we wouldn't have been separated?

And then maybe the tree would have fallen on her. No, I did the right thing.

Besides, it wasn't safe to linger on the edge of the district, I remind myself. I got her this far, she has to get herself the rest of the way to…wherever it is folks are heading. I need to clamp down the desire to do more than I am able, especially when coupled with the fact that I cannot save everyone. Didn't Thread teach me that lesson as thoroughly as possible?

It doesn't take long for the warm air to wick away the dampness from my body and I decide I've lingered by the stream long enough. Back at our camp, I decide to build a fire, hungry for something more substantial than sandwiches. I can't really lift anything comfortably, so I scoot sticks and underbrush around with my feet. It's noisy and takes forever, but at least I have a pile of fuel to work with.

Soon the others wake up and Mom mixes together a soup with some water and dried vegetables in a pan we brought. She drops in the remains of the squirrel dinner we had the night before and Mrs. Everdeen produces a supply of bouillon cubes that she adds to the stock. A feast. While the soup simmers, Mom notices that I'm a little cleaner than before and sends everyone else down to the stream to wash up. When they get back, dripping and starving, we pass around the snap tins full of soup, finish the last of the bread and drink plenty of water. Bristel takes Prim and Rory to collect more afterward. Nobody's in the mood for much conversation, and with unspoken agreement, we curl up in our blankets before sundown.

Still, it's long into the night when I finally feel sleep close over me. In my dreams I hear the droning of planes, but I'm too tired to run anymore. Everything burns.

…

A new morning comes, sunny and clear, oblivious to the havoc of yesterday. We pack up camp after a breakfast of dry fruit, and I herd the moms, Bristel, and the kids to the spot where I keep my weapons and gear hidden. I remember the location of Katniss's stash, as well, and do not hesitate to collect it. She won't be coming back. I'll need what I can to protect and care for both of our families. Thankfully, the bows, knives, and other tools were well-protected where we hid them and didn't suffer any damage from the last plane.

I put Rory in charge of Katniss's knives. I offered one to Prim, but she looked like she might be sick.

"Now what do we do?" Bristel asks as I hand him Katniss's unstrung bow and quiver. He doesn't know how to use them, but we've got all the time in the world for him to learn. It'll be nice to have a hunting partner again.

"Katniss showed me a cabin your husband knew about," I say to Mrs. E. She nods slowly. "We should head over there until we make plans. It's a small room, but at least it's shelter."

As we take the route Katniss showed me last winter, the memory of my dream from the night of the bombing resurfaces. What the hell was that about anyway? I half-expect to see her standing there when we reach the glade.

But she isn't.

And neither is the cabin.

At least not in one piece.

The plane didn't bomb far into the woods, but it got far enough to destroy the cabin and overturn the glade.

"Good thing it's summer," Rory mutters.

"What are we going to do, now?" Mrs. E asks.

Good question.

Realistically, we couldn't have stayed here forever. It's just…I hadn't figure out the next step yet. Now there is no next step – it's _the _step.

It's time to follow Katniss's hunch.

"District 13, anyone?"

* * *

TBC

AN: A surprise (even to me) holiday treat – nekked Gale lounging by a stream! LOL. My muse was feeling frisky this week, I guess. ;) Anyway, next week might be insane. My sister is supposed to have her baby (I'm going to be an auntie!) and, of course, Christmas! But I'll try to update ASAP.

Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas, everyone!


	5. Chapter 4

AN: Warning for brief mention of sex.

Special thanks to Ceylon205 for awesome beta-work. Huzzah!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"_The world we have now has let the innocent down." Pilot Speed_

* * *

Madge's POV

_I hear the whistle ricocheting off the trees. Someone grabs me and we go down. The air rushes from my lungs as I land on my stomach, and the stranger falls on top of me. My arms instinctively cover my head. I feel the impact of the incendiaries; feel the forest leap around me, piercing me. It hurts._

_And then it's over for now. I hear the plane fly away, dropping bombs intermittently into the woods. I try to get up, but the weight of the person who grabbed me presses against my back and pins me to the ground. I scrabble in the dirt, struggling to get up. I call to the man, but he isn't listening. _

_A sick feeling washes over me as the stranger fails to respond or react. _

_And I know he's dead, though I can't see his face. _

_I call for help. _

_For Gale. _

_He isn't behind me anymore. Where is he? Is he hurt? _

_Someone else hears and a group of girls about my age come and lift the body away. I try not to look, but can't help it. The man is bleeding heavily from his neck and back where he's been impaled by debris. _

_I retch and look away. _

"_Come on," one of the girls says. She helps me get up and we follow the others further into the woods, away from the blazing ruins of home._

…

I jolt back into consciousness as though I've just plunged into a freezing lake, causing my heart to beat painfully. This is the fifth time I've dreamed about the final bombing, of the dead man who saved me, of losing Gale. Overhead I thought the sky was obliterated by an expansive cloud of black smoke churning upward in to the sky. But, then I realize it's the night sky, visible through the interlacing tree branches, and relief floods my body. Until I realize that I should not be able to see the sky. By rights, I should be staring up into my bedroom ceiling.

It's not there.

Neither is Gale.

I left him behind in the madness of the moment last morning, as the bombs fell into the woods. And it's a different night, under a new darkness. The end of a different day. I've never experienced this kind of darkness outside of the mines. But without fire or flashlights, it is very dark indeed.

I roll from my stomach to my side and then sit up with an internal groan. Everything hurts from running and running, all morning, all day, until the people in front of me could run no further and we stopped like a herd of lost sheep who stupidly wandered into the woods.

The clean scent of resin and the heavy smell of leaf mould fill the air. It pricks at something in my memory. A good memory of Katniss helping my shimmy under the fence, showing me how to shoot a bow, failing miserably. I spent my whole life longing for the woods – I had no idea it would smell so _good. _

_I_ don't smell good and my mouth tastes like ashes. Dirt clinging to my hands, I can feel how gritty they are even if I can't see them. Though I try wiping them off on my pajama pants, dirt and soot coat the fabric, too, and only make it worse. My hair, once pulled back in a braid, has come undone and hangs in my face. When I brush it away, I feel leaves and wood shards tangled in it.

I swing the crushed bag off my back and quietly find something to chew on. Around me, the forest is full of sleeping humans, who, in the darkness, resemble fallen logs. They do not sleep soundly, some I can hear whimpering or crying, and bodies rolling in the dirt. I wonder at it. As the dream melts away into the recesses of my mind, I find that the terror is replaced with…nothing.

I can't feel a thing. That is, physically I'm one large ache, but there is no quivering, no tears. Shouldn't there be some kind of emotion?

There is only need.

I need water. I need something to eat. I need something softer to sleep on than the lumpy ground.

My hand fumbles blindly in the backpack while I continue taking stock of things.

Katniss is dead – my best friend.

My parents, also, by the Capitol's hand.

This elicits no response. Perhaps I do not believe it. I saw the Hunger Games footage and the exploding arena. And then barely one day later, I watched the incendiaries fall only a block away from my home and felt the flames on my own skin.

I _know_ the truth. But it doesn't _feel_ , my parents, they've always been there before. How can they just stop being?

I pull out what feels like an apple and tear into it, thankful for something tangible.

Home is destroyed – the district destroyed. I have one pack to my name. And no particular destination or anyone to guide me. I lost track of him.

This makes me feel tired. The apple core falls from my hand and I lie down again, trying to figure out what happened, how I got here.

And as sleep claims me again, I wonder _why didn't Haymitch warn us? _

…

The next time I wake, the sun is high in the sky. A few clouds streak across the blue expanse, occasionally casting shadows over the forest. My neck feels stiff from resting awkwardly on the pack. I rub my knuckles into dry, crusty eyes to get the sleep out of them. They feel puffy, too, once the grit is removed. I guess I've been crying in my sleep.

Unlike the numbness of yesterday, it doesn't take long to start to feel something. Fear. Not the gripping, adrenaline pumping fear of the bombing that gave me the ability to run farther and faster than I ever have in my life. It's more like the chill of ice running down my throat, filling my stomach with the dread of not knowing. Sort of like the first time I took the field trip into the mines and didn't know what to expect. The waiting felt horrible, just standing on the cusp of blackness, waiting for the gate to close on the elevator and swallow us. Trapping us. And then what? At one point we had to jump over a crack in the mine floor and couldn't see the depth below. That is what this feels like. I'm awake, but I don't know what to do next, or what is coming. And it frightens me.

Others are moving around, now. I sit up, hoping somebody will latch on to me or give orders, anything. I scan the faces of men and women, searching for traces of a leader.

I don't find any. Just my own lost expression mirrored in the faces around me.

Next to me, a handful of girls about my age are stirring from sleep. They all wear the same exact clothing, starchy cotton getups that would resemble dresses if they had any shape to them, not unlike our school uniforms. Community girls. Or, rather, girls from the Community Home. But, that's what we call them.

One of them, a girl – or woman – with straight blond hair, sits up and I can see her lips move. Her blue eyes roam from girl to girl and I realize that she's counting them. Then she turns and looks at me. "And you make thirteen," she says sharply, her voice shooting through the silent circle of trees.

I blink. "Pardon?"

"Have you got anyone with you?"

"No."

"Then you're with us," she says matter-of-factly. "My name is Hester. You're the mayor's girl."

"Okay," is the only thing I can think to say because, with a pang, I realize that I'm not the mayor's girl. There is no mayor. I am one of them, a community girl with no connections or family to speak of. And they've claimed me.

…

As the afternoon deepens, the exodus begins again. There doesn't seem to be any discussion on it. Just somebody decides to rise and the rest of us follow. I stay with the girls – well, I tell myself that I'm choosing to stick with them, but the truth is that I really don't know what else to do. And I recognize a few of them from school. Hester, for one. She's the dorm officer, she explains. I guess she would have graduated the same year Gale did and gone to work in the mines, but the director of the home let her stay on to fill an assistant position that had just opened up. Hester brushes it off as good luck, but the long blond braid hanging down her back suggests otherwise. Even an orphan who looks like the merchant class gets consideration for jobs over someone from the Seam.

"So, how did you escape the town without getting your head blown off?" Another girl, Tansy asks. She's short and squat with black, curly hair. Pretty, in a dwarven kind of way. A bit blunt.

"Blown off?" I ask dazedly. "By the bombs?"

She frowns. "Well, that too. I meant the Peacekeepers, how did you avoid them?"

"There were no Peacekeepers when I escaped," I reply.

"Oh, that must have been after they left, then."

"Where did they go?"

"Someplace better," she grumbles. "We were just making a run for it when their train began to pull out."

"People were hanging onto the train from anything they could grab," says Hester. "Peacekeepers were pushing them off and one or two even climbed on top and started shooting people down."

"Why would they bother?" I ask, horrified. "It makes no _sense_."

"I saw the people," says a girl who couldn't be more than eleven. Mallow. "The Peacekeepers were laughing at them. I hate Peacekeepers."

My stomach turns. I don't want to believe that anyone could laugh at a massacre. Not all Peacekeepers were like that once. But who am I kidding? Where those officers come from, there's a whole industry centered around murder as entertainment. The girls keep talking, but I withdraw into myself, too burdened to listen anymore.

The mass of humans stops for the night before it gets too dark. Hester and I take turns holding up a dirty bathrobe, which one of the girls wore out of the district, for privacy as they relieve themselves. It doesn't take very long.

My stomach cramps with hunger.

As the sunset fades, we sit in the shadow of the trees. I pull the crumpled pack of my shoulders and see what my father…packed. It's the last thing my dad did for me before we parted.

I brace myself as reality finally sets in at this tangible reminder of what I've lost. Hester asks me what's wrong, but I can't reply other than to shake my head. I just hold the bag in my arms. As the numbness starts to burn away, I'm afraid of losing control in front of everyone.

Last night…at first I couldn't see very well when they came to get me, but I could tell that the lighter steps belonged to my mother, and that her hands shook me awake. Dad's heavier footfalls were by my closet. I could hear a buzzing sound – like bees. Large bees. Mother told me to put my shoes on. So I did. I didn't know why. And then Dad threw a shirt over my head, and I pulled it down over my camisole. Then he helped me put the pack around my shoulders. He still wore his pajamas. And we ran down the stairs.

Then I saw Gale and my first thought, besides the surprise of seeing him in my house, jumped to the embarrassing, ratty pajama pants I have on. But when he held his hand out to me, I knew that we were leaving for good. And mom and dad, they should come…. Why didn't they come?

I shove that unanswerable question away and slowly unfasten the straps and lift the flap. At first I don't see anything as my eyes brim over. I feel my fingers skim over a small potato sack resting at the top. I pull it out, remembering that Gale shoved it inside when I almost tripped as we started running across the front lawn. I peek inside, curious to see what he put in there. Some fruit, bread, and tea packets. A knife from our kitchen. I guess Gale made himself at home. I feel a possessive sting, thinking that he just walked in and grabbed what he wanted from _my _house. And then I feel suddenly warm, because he took it for me, anyway.

And then I feel icy cold, in a dizzy whiplash of emotion. He knew that nobody at home would need any of this stuff for very long, no matter who it belonged to. He knew about the crushing bombs out there last night, and the fire that followed, and made choices accordingly. The implications are horrible to consider. I am torn between gratitude that he came for me and hatred that he came _only_ for me.

And only as far as the fence. For Hazelle's sake.

I want to curse Hazelle for interfering. I can't. But I am bitterly angry with Gale, and it clears away the other emotions blinding my eyes while I continue digging through the bag.

Although I am oblivious to what's going around me, it turns out that my actions are under much scrutiny. When I pull out an apple, a hand reaches out to grab it. And then the sack and backpack disappears as the girls pass it – or grab it – around.

Before long it is dropped at my feet. I pick it up. My initials are stamped into the leather flap. I run my thumb over the indentations. The only thing left inside is the steak knife.

And just like that, all my food and clothing are gone.

…

Two days pass, mile by mile. The line of walkers stretches out and thins. The old, the slow, the dying or soon-to-be's winnowed out from the hale. At first, the woods were a comfort. A place with beautiful things to wipe away the memory of the last hours of District 12. I remember always feeling like the forest beyond the fence was filled with opportunity and freedom.

But it's a desert, really, for a community unequipped for survival.

After another day, there are gaps so large, that I cannot see the line at all.

I am not at the end.

But the end of the line is no longer moving.

And I am not moving as quickly as I should. My head buzzes, and I just feel so tired. All the time.

The old ones who didn't have family to help them gave up a while ago. The solitary children were mostly absorbed into families who can look after them. And then it's us. The community girls. Too old to be looked after, too stupid to fend for ourselves. But we have no choice, because we are alone in the woods. Together we share a collective knowledge of just about nothing. None of us knows what's poisonous or not, so we tend to avoid the bushes of berries, rings of mushrooms, and herbs. I recognize hazelnuts. Another girl has the idea of finding birds' nests and sucking the eggs. Gross, but at this point nobody feels too picky. With no direction or destination in mind, we take to following streams. At least we have a drinking source at hand. But drinking the water seems to have mixed results. Some girls can drink the entire river, but their bodies are drying out from fluxing so much.

They fall behind.

One more day and we're all goners, I think as I drop to the floor.

…

I wake with my face pressed into the leaf mould. This is not a bad place to give up, except that there are worn boots blocking my line of vision, and I would like to see the light fall through the broad, green leaves before I go.

I reach out a hand to trace the lip of the black rubber sole. A torn corduroy hem of a pant leg hangs just above the boot revealing a dirty ankle. It shifts as a person hunches over me.

"This one's awake," a man says. I feel him help me sit up. Something metal, a flask, is held to my lips and I swallow. The liquid burns going down and coughs wrack my body. It tastes like turpentine. White liquor.

The man pats my back with his meaty hand. "This'll get your heart started." He laughs. It makes his belly bounce.

"I think this is what she wanted." Another man with sandy blond hair materializes out of the trees and hands me a bottle filled with clear liquid. I push it away, still coughing. "It's only water. Purified it this morning."

"Oh," I say weakly, accepting. I take a tentative sip, just in case. The tepid water rinses my mouth and throat, washing away the burning liquor. "Thanks, mister."

"You're welcome," the blond man replies, giving me a smile that reaches his blue eyes. He reaches toward me and I flinch as his hand brushes just above my ear. He draws back with a dry leaf in his hand. "Sorry, you had this in your hair."

"Oh," is all the eloquence I can muster.

Around us, the other girls begin to sit up lethargically, awoken by the racket I made.

"Quite a group you got here," one of them says. "No offense, but you all look the worse for wear."

I don't reply.

"Are you in charge?" he asks me.

"No…we don't really…I mean…" I just stop talking.

The blond man, Water, looks around at our filthy faces incredulously. "So everyone left you girls behind to fend for yourselves?"

"I guess," I whisper.

"What about you two, then?" Hester asks, standing up. Her shoulders are set in a defensive posture. "Don't tell me you got left behind?"

Liquor, the dark-haired paunchy man, grins. "Nah. We were in front. One day we turned around and realized nobody followed behind us. So, we backtracked until we ran into some more folks and decided to set up camp, round up whomever we could."

"Why?" I ask.

"Makes sense, don't it? Two guys trying to survive in the middle of nowhere all alone aren't going to last too long, especially if something happens to the other." Liquor shifts the pack on his shoulders. "And then we figured there were probably folks like yourselves who were in some difficulty who could use help."

The girls stare at them blankly. Somewhere a bird calls out and its shadow darts over the ground as it flies to another tree.

Water continues. "We're a district, aren't we? I mean, everyone just sort of scattered, but the more of us who come together the better off we'll be."

"So, you're saying that there's a camp of D12 people somewhere?" I nearly whimper.

"Yes, ma'am."

For some reason this news seems to deflate everyone.

"This whole time we've been wandering around aimlessly while our bellies bottom out for no good reason?" One of the girls cries.

Water gives Liquor a look. "That's what we were afraid of, which is why we decided to send out search parties to scout the area. We can be your guides, if you like, show you how to get there."

"How far?" Hester asks.

"Oh, twenty or thirty miles. The camp is northeast of here."

Mallow lies back down in the dirt, which is fairly representative of how we all feel.

"That won't do us any good," Hester informs them. "Not at the rate we've been going."

"We can get you fed and on your way, don't worry about that," says Water as he reveals a bag hanging behind his back. Nobody moves.

Liquor pulls flint and tinder from his pocket. "But, first, we need a fire."

…

My body shudders with pleasure as the warm, flaky piece of trout all but melts in my mouth. Despite my desperate hunger, I force myself to chew thoroughly before swallowing. Then I wait before taking another bite until I'm sure that the food isn't making me sick. I've never been this hungry before in my life, but starvation was endemic back home. We actually had units in health class about how to care for someone recovering from extreme depravation. Although, judging by the way the girls are eating, medical theory isn't working out against actual, painful, _hunger_. This is the first night we have meat and a fire since we fled. I sit close to the flames until my cheeks feel like they're about to burn. For a moment, I have a strange desire to find out what it would feel like…sort like the strange pull one sometimes feels to jump from a high place.

I stop staring into the flames. Black spots fill my vision for a few minutes, but when it clears I observe the strangers. Liquor has black, wiry hair with grey blazes on each temple. He stands back from the group around the fire, watching and occasionally offering advice to Water, who is roasting the fish. His paunchy gut reminds me of Haymitch, and he doesn't button the top of his shirt, revealing a tuft of black chest hair. There's something swarthy and calculating in his small, grey eyes and he's constantly looking around. I guess it's a hunter thing, or something. The other, Water, reminds me of a gardener my family used to have. He's better-tempered, though, engaging the girls in conversation as he hands out steaming pieces of trout. The girls laugh at his jokes, especially the younger ones. Water is good at helping them forget what they've been through.

The strangers don't offer their names, though. I guess we don't care. They are a means of getting foods and fire, and know how to pile the wood just right so that it doesn't go out. As far as we're concerned, they are gods.

As another round of trout roasts over the fire, the girls take turns asking if there's anything they can do to help. The gratitude we feel toward these two is immense, and it's difficult to sit idle while they care for us. One of the girls, Aster, reveals that she has some tea bags that she can add to our meal if they have something in which to boil water. Liquor pulls out a pan from his pack and some of the girls actually clap.

When Aster hands the packets over to him, I catch a glimpse of the labels. They're from my pack. Ginger and lemon. My mom's.

But I don't begrudge Aster. Much. I'm too dehydrated.

Someone collects water from the stream. While it's boiling, Hester points out that we have no cups to drink the tea, so Liquor finished whatever is left in his flask and we pass that around when the tea is done steeping. I take a pull from the flask when it comes to me. The flavor is very thin, but it helps soothe my stomach, which is now protesting the dinner I ate.

With the tea finished, there's nothing left for the rest of us to do but sleep. Liquor and Water don't seem too tired, though. Liquor has a slim tree branch in his hand, maybe two inches in circumference. He's splicing the thick end of it into prongs, and sharpening them. I don't know what he intends to do with it, but I hope it's meant for food and not for us. However, my worries are only vague fancies, really, and I don't fight the heaviness in my lids. Liquor hands the spear off to Water, who shoves the sharp end into the hot coals. The last thing I see before drifting off to sleep is Liquor and Water talking with their heads bent together, their faces in sharp relief over the dying embers.

…

Some of the girls ate too fast and get horrible cramps. We spend a difficult night, often waking up to the sounds of their groans and sickness.

The last time I wake up, it's to a warm, summer morning. The sky is clear and a cool breeze coming down from the blue-green ridges in the west is soothing. But I don't feel right. It's not physical, not really. My stomach aches a little, but it's more of a feeling I have. Something about the atmosphere has changed. I sit up and look around the sleeping girls. I realize we're alone. Are we supposed to be?

Where did Liquor and Water go?

I shake Tansy awake and she stares at me through bleary eyes. "What?" she moans.

"The strangers are gone."

"What?" she sits upright in alarm. "They left us?"

Just then the strangers materialize out of the trees.

"Up and at 'em," Water says. "We've got breakfast."

This is very effective, in terms of a wake-up call. A few of the girls scatter to find kindling. As I get up to follow, Liquor gestures for me to come over.

"Yes?"

"Mind holding this pan while I get the water purifier?"

"Okay," I mumble. The pan is nearly full and my shoulders hunch forward under the weight. Why he can't just set it on the ground is beyond me, but whatever. It's not as though I were in a position to grumble after what they've done. I watch him cross our resting place to fish in his bag. He looks up and I catch his eyes rake up and down my body, pausing on my breasts which are squeezed between my arms. When he sees that I've caught him staring, he gives me a grin. I quickly set the pan down, feeling a blush creeping up my neck. The man is old enough to be my father. Albeit, a young father, but still. I feel a suspicion that he didn't need help after all. Ugh. And what he could possibly find pleasing about a young woman who hasn't washed in days is beyond me.

Maybe that's one of the differences between men and women that people talk about. Gross.

I stalk away into the trees, feeling flustered and irritable. Hester roots on the ground nearby, helping Mallow pick some old acorns off the ground. We've taken to gnawing on all kinds of things lately. As long as they don't have worm holes.

"Are you all right?" Hester asks, taking in my expression.

I kneel down beside her. "I think I caught one of those men looking at me."

Hester flinches. "Looking?"

"You know," I say, not wanting to say too much in front of the younger girl. "Looking _at_…me."

This seems to register. "Are you sure?"

"He leered."

Hester shrugs. "I'm sure it was a mistake. Besides, why would he look at you when there's a camp somewhere, full of women his age? Maybe you misread him."

"Maybe," I sigh. Maybe I'm just nervous.

"Maybe?" She impatiently flips her hair back over her shoulder. "We have no reason to worry about these guys. See how they're helping us?"

"We don't know anything about them," I point out.

A note of irritation threads through Hester's voice. "Madge, maybe he checked you out, I don't know. For men it's practically a reflex. Don't let it go to your head. Here, help us carry the acorns back," she says, changing the subject.

…

Nothing happens when we get back to the camp. Liquor doesn't do anything to suggest that he remembers his earlier behavior or that he's seen me before in his life. I'm an uncomfortable mix of grateful and confused.

After breakfast, we move on for the first time in two days. It's slow, we barely make three miles and even that is exhausting. I feel like an old woman hobbling along, which is frustrating because I walked everywhere at home. It's amazing how quickly my stamina guttered out. At this rate it will take _days _to reach the other refugees.

When the afternoon comes, we stop for a break and some food. While we're eating, I notice the camaraderie developing between the strangers and the girls. I don't get it. I mean, they explained their motives for helping us, but I almost have the feeling that they aren't in much of a hurry to reach this camp of theirs. With a mixture of pain and wry humor, I imagine if Gale were here in their places. He would have us marching till our feet wasted away into stumps instead of allowing us to lounge around every half mile. I need to know more about these men, about their characters.

As the procession starts up again, I fall behind the others and watch.

Most of the younger girls fall to the rear with me. The older, stronger girls are at the front of the line with Liquor. He sings a bawdy drinking song, appropriately enough, mumbling theatrically through the naughty words, winking conspiratorially with the girls like he's saying, "We know something the little girls don't know." I'm still unnerved by the strangers' disappearance this morning, and the silent way they communicate with one another. And the way Liquor played with me. We don't really know anything about their histories, who their families are, or their occupations. I don't remember seeing them at home, ever. Not that a person can know everyone in the district, especially since I'm naturally reclusive. Something in me says to stay away, that it isn't just my imagination or ego, as Hester suggested. Maybe it's the way Liquor keeps finding excuses to touch the girls he's walking next to. After taking another small rest, he deliberately stepped in front of Aster, forcing her to brush up against him. But then I see Water wrap Mallow in his jacket with a kind, fatherly smile, or another gesture of equal kindness to the other girls, and I reject my fears. I must be crazy. Or an ungrateful, suspicious, old biddy.

…

We stop long before nightfall. Liquor takes the spear that he made yesterday and heads upstream. Water builds a fire, boiling a pan of drinking water and chatting amicably while we wait. When Liquor returns an hour later, he has a new line of cleaned trout.

I don't know how they had the opportunity to learn how to fish. All of our water back home was piped in from underground. The one stream that flows through the district grew so contaminated with coal byproducts that nobody would think to fish in it. And although there were a few ponds, they were small, mucky, and choked with algae. If anybody wanted fish, they had to get it from market at premium prices (and then some) or get it from Gale and Katniss. So, maybe the strangers got the idea from previous Hunger Games? I don't remember anyone using spears, but the strangers also have a few years of Games on me. Grudgingly I admit there are some positives to paying attention to the tributes maneuvering the arenas.

The fish is skewered, roasted, and gobbled down, just like last night. Some of it is put away for tomorrow morning. We each take a turn drinking warm water from the pan and then most of us turn in. Or really, we just lie down wherever there aren't other people's arms or legs. I scoot near a bush that gives a pretense of some privacy – at least on one side of me.

Some girls elect to stay up and talk to the strangers. Through half-closed eyes I watch them, wondering if anything will be said that will give me more clues to the characters of these men.

I'm still awake and watching when the rest of the girls decide to go to bed like the rest of us.

All except one: Aster.

She's sitting with her thigh wedged up against Liquor. They're whispering with each other while Water pretends to look after the dying fire. Aster laughs, an unusual, sultry sound, and Liquor stands up, helping her to her feet. Then he leads her away into the darkness of the trees. She goes willingly, but it turns my stomach, whatever it is they're going to do. I hear faint giggling and the sound of tussling plants. And then something else.

It takes me a moment to register, having never _heard_ this happening before in my life.

Water looks behind him then continues to preside over the fire. Doing what? Keeping watch? Is this the real reason they are scouting the woods?

What have we gotten ourselves into?

I roll over on my side facing away from the camp, covering my ears and trying to distract myself from the sound of slapping flesh and grunting coming from the bushes only a few yards away. I've never wanted to crawl out of my own skin so badly. Sleep is not an option at this point, but would be a blessed relief. Any kind of oblivion would be, even the kind that Haymitch opts for.

_Especially_ the kind Haymitch opts for. For the first time in my life I want a drink.

I don't even try to stop the tears streaking down the side of my face. A whole new world of horror opens up to me, something different from the stifling injustice of District 12. It's carnal and depraved, and exposure to it makes me feel tarnished, like something good has been taken and replaced with slime. As the tears continue to fall, I'm longing for someone to take me away from this, to feel safe again.

* * *

TBC

AN: I took some liberties with the timeline, since SC doesn't tell us how many days Katniss goes in and out of consciousness before Gale turns up. I doubt that they're wandering around like this in SC's mind, but I need time to build a romance. ;) I've calculated how many days it would take a healthy, trained hiker to get from Pennsylvania to New York, which is where I have them getting picked up by hovercrafts. It'll take longer for wounded, young, and physically untrained individuals who have to keep hunting for their food.


	6. Chapter 5

Shameless plugs: Sorry for the delay! I was out of town visiting some friends I went to college with, and well, the chapter just had to wait. ;) Also, if you haven't checked out burdge-bug's gallery at deviantart(dot)com, then you seriously need to. She just added some fantastic THG artwork! (Although, she does Gale a disservice, I feel.) She also does some brilliant fan art for others of my favorite series, like The Mortal Instruments, Twilight, and Max Ride! Just to name a few. Gah.

And in the spirit of shameless plugs, I totally found Gale: http:// www(dot)ehow(dot)com/video_4959045_wilderness-survival-making-snare(dot)html. Not gonna lie – I watched all the videos. Don't know if Kevin Barrett knows what he's talking about, but who cares. The boy is gorgeous.

Oh, and this is your librarian speaking (sort of): Get to teenreads(dot)com and vote for the top five Children's Book Awards. I'm still mad about Teen Read Week, so go support Suzanne Collins. ;)

* * *

**Warning: This chapter gets an M rating for thematic elements. **

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Madge's POV

…

"_You smell like strawberries." _

"_Do I?"_

"_Mmm," Gale groans against my throat. _

_I can hear him inhale, and feel the rise of his chest against mine. My stomach flips as his lips trace upward from my collarbone, nipping and soothing my throat. His hair brushes against my cheek and the tangy scent of clover and fresh sweat mingle with the soap he used. Then his lips whisper over my own. I smooth my hand over the stubble covering his jaw, reaching up to thread my fingers through his straight, black hair. Gale looks down at me, grey eyes dark with hunger. _

_He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. _

_Timidly, my lips caress his jaw. The dark stubble scratches my skin; but it feels good, somehow. His careful hands roam from my back to my hips, then gently strum the ribs beneath my breasts. I lean, boneless, against his chest, clinging to his grey mining shirt as my body floods with warmth and longing. _

_Then his hands cup my face, lips seeking mine, firm and sure. Demanding more. _

_I yield, as his lips part mine, and his tongue explores my mouth. I feel the reverberations of a moan in his chest as I lean into the kiss. His hands inch down from my face to my shoulders, smoothing down my arms. He's holding on to me as desperately as I'm holding on to him. I've never been kissed this way before and shyness burns in my cheeks. Yet, I respond, seeking his tongue with my own, tasting him for myself. _

_Only…his mouth is suddenly hollow and rancid. _

_I push away to find that my hands are tangled in a white Peacekeeper's uniform instead of grey cotton. _

_The man whose arms crush me to his body has patches of ginger hair and skin missing, revealing the skull beneath. _

_I try to scream, but Corpse Darius devours my lips. _

_My mouth fills with blood._

…

I wake up on my back, gasping for breath. My pack, which I've used as a bad replacement for a blanket, inched up over my face while I slept. I shove it away. The sky is still dark, so I try settling my frayed nerves back down for more rest. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find an escape. Even in sleep.

Mom and dad; Katniss; Darius. One by one their faces appear in my mind like files in a catalog of the lost. I miss my parents with a physical ache. I wish that my dad could scoop me up right now, like he did on the night Thread came to town. And my mom…my mom. If I were like Katniss, I could have gotten her out. If I were Katniss, I think bitterly, Gale would have made sure my mother got out. Absolutely. It must be a comfort, having the capability to look after yourself and the people you care about.

It's stupid to dwell on that, though. Truth is, I'd rather be _with_ Katniss than be her. I miss having another girl around whom I understand and who understands me. Not like Hester, who doesn't want to talk about anything with sharp edges; and Aster, whose behavior completely baffles me.

Then there's Darius, who makes me think of Gale. They were friends, in a fashion. Gale and Katniss accepted him, despite the fact that he was a Peacekeeper. I wonder how Gale could warm up to a Peacekeeper before he would bat an eye at someone from the town crowd. I know Katniss thought of Darius as "Hob", which, I guess means a person who likes to operate under the Capitol radar. And even though they never picked up on Darius's secret, they could sense the hero, as he once put it, lurking under the uniform. The man who spied for the rebellion with the likes of Haymitch Abernathy and put himself at risk for Gale's sake and mine. I miss talking to him in the rundown shop. He could spin even the most grim of discussions into an amusing anecdote. I even miss the way he teased me, even if it usually made me blush with embarrassment. I guess he just treated me like a friend, no matter what, and I never realized how grateful I felt for that until he was gone.

And that's my fault, because I let myself get carried away. Only, instead of risking my own safety, I put my friend in danger. What kind of friend does that make me?

Quietly, I raise the three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and hold them there. It's the only gesture –the last gesture – I can make for them.

Will anyone I care about survive? So far, it isn't looking good. Except maybe for Gale. His chances are a lot better than mine, assuming he survived the bombing in the forest. Which I do assume.

Gale.

My breath hitches in my throat as my body instantly responds to the memory of the dream. The night air suddenly feels very warm. Does he really kiss that well?

What is _wrong_ with me? I grab the pack and pull it back over my face with a frustrated huff. Where did that bizarre dream come from? I haven't had a nightmare about Darius in months – and never had _that_ kind of dream about Gale. Ever.

I roll onto my side and fold the pack into some semblance of a pillow. It takes a few minutes to wriggle into a comfortable position and pick away the pebbles digging into my ribs. Without thinking, I cup a hand in front of my mouth and exhale.

Ugh.

The odor coming from my body smells worse than a wet sheep perfumed with sulfur swimming in a basin of dead fish. I think. I've never actually seen a sheep in person, let alone smelled one. Still, it can't be pleasant.

What I want is a bath, a bed, a real friend, and a locked door between me and the bad guys. I fall asleep, dreaming of taking a bubble bath while someone tries to force his way through the bathroom door.

…

Aster wakes up with us in the morning. She doesn't look all that different, though maybe a little smug. I'm not sure what I expected to see, but I don't know how a girl can do something like that and not have it show. But I guess that's stupid. She does give Liquor a rather brassy glance when he walks by. His back is to me, so I don't see his response. Soon after, the two men both leave, Liquor holding the spear he made last night.

In this rare moment when both of the men are gone, someone actually asks Aster about last night. All she says is that she wanted to express her gratitude. I gag audibly and Tansy elbows me. But when nobody is looking, she gives me a look that suggests she feels the same way.

"Those two are bad news," she whispers.

"You think so, too?" I say. "I said something to Hester yesterday about Liquor – "

"Liquor?"

I blush. "That's the name I gave the dark-haired man. The other one is Water. I guess I've never said it out loud before."

Tansy looks a little confused, but shrugs. "Okay. So, you talked to Hester?"

"Yes," I reply, looking down at my dirty hands. Huh. There's a lot of dirt under my fingernails. For some reason, this actually makes me a little happy. "She made me feel like I was crazy."

A troubled expression clouds Tansy's face. "Hester doesn't like to deal with things. I mean, the Community Home was a tough place to grow up, so I understand why she's tired…but the last thing she'll want is a confrontation with those guys."

I consider this for a moment. "So what happened at the Home when kids were treating others badly?"

Tansy hugs her arms around her middle. "I don't know, I guess we usually just looked the other way and hoped we wouldn't get involved."

"Oh," is all I can think to say, but I hold out my hand to her and she actually takes it. I give her hand a squeeze and we sit in silence, processing. I'm glad I've found a sympathetic ear.

Later, I approach Hester.

"I don't think I misread that man's signals yesterday," I say, padding through some ferns. She's leaning against the trunk of a tree and I stop in front of her, leaning over her a little. "What happened last night with Aster has got to stop."

Hester looks up at me, blond hair dull from dirt and soapless baths in the river hangs in strings around her face. She sighs. "I know it's not…appropriate…but I can't make them go away, can I?" she says, lifting her hands in defeat. "And we need to eat."

I fold my arms across my chest. "It's _wrong_. I think we left _inappropriate_ behind a long time ago. In fact, there's a word we use for that kind of behavior, and it usually coincides with a jail term."

She grimaces. "But we're _alive_, Madge. I don't like it, but survival wins out over morals in the wilderness." She sees the shock in my eyes in reaction to her words and reaches up for me. She squeezes my arm. "Look, just keep away from them and they'll leave you alone."

I shake my head and walk away, since poor advice is clearly all I'll get from her.

…

When they come back, it's with more fish and even a squirrel. After the game is cleaned and cooked, we take the food to eat while we resume our journey.

I don't linger behind this time. No way. I want this adventure over with as soon as possible, even if we have to walk our legs off to reach this so-called camp. No more three miles a day. We walk eight miles, which is a miracle. Every time Liquor suggests a stop or one of the girls complains, I try to counter it: encouraging or downright bullying the girls onward. If my natural inclination is toward shy and quiet, well, there isn't room for that kind of luxury anymore. Another side of my personality comes out, the part of me that steals newspapers to fuel rebellion.

At one point, we stop by a bend in the stream and watch Liquor and Water take turns spearing fish. I pay attention, noticing the way they hold their bodies so that their shadows fall in a certain place, how they hold the spear just under the water, and one by one they catch more trout for dinner. It's a small comfort, but I'm glad to finally know what they've been using that spear for.

Throughout the day I notice that Liquor's been watching me. A lot. I try to keep myself surrounded by the smallest girls, holding their hands and helping them onward so that he doesn't have a chance to get close to any of us. I don't take the food they offer or in any way acknowledge either of the men. As the afternoon wears on and we stop for the night, I fade into the shadows, avoid the fire, even see if I can still go without eating. Doesn't matter. His eyes follow me and the disquieting realization that I am in a whole different kind of hunger game sweeps over me. And there are some fates worse than death in this arena.

But despite my new fear, tonight is Water's turn. When the girls seem mostly asleep, he also chooses a black-haired girl, fourteen or fifteen years old, while Liquor sits by the fire staring off in my direction through slitted eyes.

Water is more discrete than his counterpart, and wherever he took the girl, it's far enough away from the rest of us. I can't help trying to hear this time, concerned about the girl and hoping against hope that it isn't what it looks like. And maybe that Water isn't as bad as Liquor. From the beginning he had a stronger humane streak than Liquor, and behaved with such gentle manners toward the kids. But, I guess when it comes down to it, he's a man who's just as base as Liquor. He just has the appearance of goodness going for him. I feel disappointed, on top of feeling sickened.

I also feel incredibly hungry and unable to sleep. I remember thinking once that I could forgo all comforts and eat pine, like Katniss showed me, as long as I could linger in bed in the mornings.

Scratch that.

I like comfort, and I especially like beds no matter what time of day. But pine tastes disgusting. Always.

The night grows chillier than usual and the air feels sticky with coming rain. The pack only covers my torso, and the canvas material doesn't really add much to my warmth and comfort. Only a few yards away, Liquor sits by the fire, warming his hands. If only he'd go away so that I could sleep closer to the heat. Impossible. I'd rather lie awake shivering and miserable than give him the satisfaction of watching me up close while I rest.

The night seems to drag on, but I'm sure it's only been fifteen or twenty minutes. Another discomfort presents itself and I feel the need to relieve myself. But I don't want to break away from the group to do it. I lie there for another eternity debating back and forth with myself while an owl flies overhead. I hear a scuffle in the leaves somewhere in the darkness and a squeak. Then silence.

Perfect. Live forest metaphors. I really don't want to end up like the poor creature who got snapped up by the owl. And I know perfectly well who the owl is.

Finally I decide that it's stupid to suffer from a discomfort that is within my power to end. So I get up as quietly as I can and creep into the darkness of the trees. Once I can no longer see the fire I quickly get the deed over with and pull my pants back up.

I didn't see him follow me, and didn't even know he was there until just after I cover myself. But before I can start back to the fire, he's in front of me.

"You should be careful about wandering around on your own, especially at night," he drawls.

I try to push past him, but he stands solidly in place. "I didn't go far."

"There are predators in these woods, you know. And you're easy prey," he continues.

"I got that. Thanks. Now I'd like to go back."

"Just a minute," he says. "I'll make sure you get back all right."

"I didn't go that far," I snap, repeating myself. "I can get back by myself. I don't need your help."

It's dark but I can start to see his face a little better as my eyes adjust. He's concentrating on my face with a look of hungry complacence. Like he sees a dessert he wants and is sure of getting.

"Oh, I think you do need my help, darling. I remember finding a very weak and hungry girl just the other day. And now look at her. Upright and well-fed. You'd think that wouldn't be something to forget."

My nerves are already raw, and the way he's talking about me like I'm not even here really grates. "Look, I like staying alive, and I'm grateful for the fish and clean water you've brought us, but you and your friend are way out of line," I say. I have no clue where the gumption is coming from, but this man needs to be taken down a peg…or lots of pegs. "You two better leave us alone or I swear—"

He shoves me against a tree, pressing into my body, vice grips on my wrists. "You're an ungrateful minx, you know that? Tomorrow," he growls. "It's time you earn your keep." Then he releases me and stalks off.

I stay pressed up against the tree with my heart beating frantically. The last time I was in a situation like this, I had someone to swoop in and save me. But this has gone to a whole new level and there isn't anyone who can help me but myself. What would Katniss do?

And then I know.

…

"_This is the way my dad always took," says Katniss as she crawls through the hole where the rusted chain links curl away from the steel post. "There are a few other places, though. Come on." _

_I hastily duck under the fence. This is the part that makes me feel the most nervous. If we were caught, it wouldn't be good. But Katniss sneaks into the woods so many times without a hitch, that I force myself to swallow my worry. Besides, exploring the forest is what I've wanted for so long, and never had the courage to ask for until Katniss brought it up. _

_I continue to follow her down a deer track that leads uphill for a ways. Once in a while I bump into her when she stops unexpectedly, because I am so absorbed in the forest. The trees are so big out here, and full of birds and bugs. I wish I knew the correct names for things. We learn a little bit in school, but since it doesn't directly apply to our district's industry, our knowledge is very scant. In fact, everything that Katniss knows was passed down to her by generations of family members who refused to forget about the woods. _

_I wonder if any of my relatives ever knew how to survive out here? Probably not – but what the Undersees and Donners lack in know-how, we make up for with tenacity. For the most part. _

"_That's a beautiful tree," I say. Katniss looks where I am pointing toward a short, flowering tree. _

"_That's a dogwood," she replies dismissively. "You can use the twigs to brush your teeth, but it's useless for food. The berries don't taste very good and can be poisonous." _

"_Oh. Well, it's a pretty tree, anyway." _

_She frowns, crinkling her nose, concentrating on the dogwood like she's trying to really see it for the first time. "I guess." _

_Eventually the deer track leads down into a valley. Katniss shows me the patch where they gather strawberries when they're in season. I'm so excited that I nearly walk into the mesh fence Gale put up, which makes Katniss laugh. It's a beautiful sound, like the clear notes of a songbird. And besides feeling a little bit stupid, I also feel pleased that my clumsiness made her do it. _

_We leave the strawberry patch behind and Katniss asks if I want to help her with today's snare run. She doesn't have to ask me twice. _

_The first snare we come to is located in a small meadow. Katniss points out a thin line in the grass called a game trail. Two sticks stand upright out of the ground on either side of the depression. A taut, white line runs through the middle of the sticks. One end is embedded within a neighboring bush, while the other end is lost in the Indian grass. Katniss follows the line and bends to lift something up. She frees a rabbit carcass from the noose and tucks it away in her game bag. Then she resets the snare._

"_How do you get this to work?" I ask. _

_She shrugs and brushes some stray wisps of hair out of her face. "This one isn't really complicated at all. Gale comes up with most snares. He's really good at it and when he designs a new one, he teaches me." _

_After that, Katniss lets me take a turn resetting the snares. It's a lot of fun, and a little bit of a rush, with the suspense of whether or not a new catch will be waiting for us when we approach the next stop on the line. Although, my fun comes to an end when a Katniss has to finish off a half-strangled squirrel. It took a long time for the memory of its twitching body and the dull thunk of the rock to go away. _

"_Do you mind if we rest for a bit?" I ask afterward. My stomach feels a little queasy. _

"_Sure," she says, unfazed. I guess it's going to take a lot more than a day in the woods to make me tough like her. _

_I make for a shady patch beneath an oak tree. "No, not there," Katniss says, pulling on my elbow. "Poison ivy. See, three leaves." _

"_Oh?" I look down at the vine creeping up the base of the trunk. It looks innocent enough, with arrowhead shaped leaves and a pleasant green color. _

"_Not fun," she continues. "Touch it and you break out in painful blisters and everything. The oil gets into your clothes, too, and makes the rash worse." _

"_Oh." _

"_Come on, I'll show you the ledge." _

…

The memory fades away and I feel something – something more than hollow from loss or stiff or frightened. I feel a spark, like I'm coming back from wherever it is that I've been on this terrible journey. A second wind?

I can't do it tonight, since I can't see any of the plants close enough to tell if they're the real thing. But as soon as it's daylight…I peel myself off the tree and take deep, calming breaths.

Forward.

…

When I wake up on this misty, grey morning, it's to find that everyone else is gathered around the fire for breakfast and an impromptu meeting. I lay there listening. Some of the girls are complaining about yesterday's pace, their aches, their illness. Liquor and Water are all sympathy.

Of course.

It doesn't take them long to decide that today is a recovery day. I can't believe my ears. That means more delays and more time with the strangers…and time is something I really, really don't have.

I scrabble to my feet and edge my way into the front of the circle. "Don't you think it would be better to more forward, even a little, than to sit around and waste time? I mean, lingering here won't make the miles go away," I tell them, interrupting Water.

"But you don't want to overexert yourselves," says Water. He points out Mallow's ankle, which is swollen from falling yesterday.

"We can carry Mallow," I protest.

The girls are quiet and I get the feeling that my plan is not popular.

"Madge, are you really going to debate this?" It's Hester. "Just let it go. The girls want to rest, but if you'd like to go on, then…" Her voice drops off, but the challenge is there.

I look around at the faces of the Community Home girls. They're familiar to me now, but in the past few days I still haven't really connected with anyone but Tansy, and maybe Mallow. The little girl looks up at me with puzzled eyes, but I can feel a growing hostility from everyone else. Do they really not care about the company we're keeping?

Finally, I square my shoulders. "I think I _will_ go on."

Tansy gives a surprised hiccup.

"Don't be foolish. You have no idea where you're going," Liquor sneers.

"What is that to you?" I challenge.

He leans back on the log he's sitting on, unable to answer honestly, but the truth shows in his leer.

"I don't need your help," I hiss. "I'm out of here."

As I wend my way out of the group, someone grabs my hand. "Madge, _please_," Tansy pleads. "Don't go."

"You can come with me," I whisper.

She shakes her head and drops my hand. "And do what? Starve? I don't want to do that again."

I can't tell her that we wouldn't starve or get hurt. Or lost. Or killed. Or anything else. Because the odds are pretty good that one of those things will happen. "I can't stick around, Tansy." I glance back over my shoulder at Liquor, who's watching us.

Her eyes widen with understanding and she murmurs, "Goodbye, Madge."

"Bye."

…

I collect my empty pack and the steak knife before heading off down a random trail. I have no idea what direction I'm heading in or where it will lead, but it doesn't matter.

I know full well that I'm not really leaving.

By the afternoon I've slowed to an athletic trudge, which is really more of a shuffle with an occasional trip over tree roots. Sharp cramps shoot through my stomach in sync with my steps, and my feet hurt.

Eight miles is really a lot, after all, and I'm feeling it today.

The worst part, though, is that Liquor is tailing me and not even trying that hard to hide it. I sensed him behind me maybe an hour or two after I set out. He's managed to stay relatively hidden, but once in a while I can hear him stepping on sticks. What aggravates me is how long he's letting this chase drag out.

But I'm too exhausted and hungry to do anything too bullheaded and valiant. So I do the one thing that I figure will keep him away and give me a chance to rest. I think about last night and scout out a bed of glossy, green leaves in clusters of three.

Eventually I find some on the edge of a meadow, twisting around the bases of the trees. I look for signs that Liquor is nearby, but don't sense his presence. Maybe he's taking a rest somewhere? Good. I lay down in them and start to roll. Katniss said the oil absorbs into fabric, so I don't bother taking my clothes off, knowing that the poison will get everywhere it needs to.

_See how you like me now_, I think viciously. _And see how you like it when it's your turn. _

The stinging doesn't start right away, and at first I'm nervous about not finding the right plant. But then red splotches show up on my wrists and elbows, and my neck itches.

Suppose this uglification works and Liquor leaves me alone…how do I heal myself? I sort of wish I'd thought of that before I rolled around in the ivy.

To slow the poison down, I wrap my hands in my nasty, old socks, and start cutting vines off the trees with the knife and stringing them into a bower – which is step two of my plan. Poisoning myself will hopefully turn Liquor off to me and ruin _his_ plans. But _my_ plan is to really get him where it hurts – on him – so that he won't bother anyone else. With my scant knowledge of snares from Katniss, I set up a blushingly crude trigger that will send the vines cascading down. Romantic. It's too bad Community girls didn't have any rope between us, I think, because we could have made snares and not relied so much on Water and Liquor. Katniss never showed me how to skin the rabbits and squirrels, but a badly cleaned piece of meat is better than nothing. Of course, there's still the fire issue...just how bad is fresh, raw meat for a person?

These thoughts help get me through my project without dwelling on the impending confrontation with Liquor, which is a good thing. But not long after I begin, I have to stop for a rest. After making a bed of poison ivy leaves that I've pulled up, my head feels too light and my hands shake. Now that I know this confrontation is inevitable, I wish I hadn't stopped eating. I sit down and cup my forehead in my hands, which I immediately regret as the oil transfers to my face. Ugh.

Then I hear it, the crunch of boots over leaves and twigs, the rustle of fabric, and a muffled thud of wood on dirt.

And then silence.

…

I glance up.

"Looks like rain," Liquor says conversationally. He leans back on his heels, arms crossed over his thick chest. In one hand he's holding the fishing spear. I gulp. "Maybe you should stop sulking like a little kid, and come back to camp where there's a fire and food," he chides.

"I'm not hungry," I say, with a defiant tilt of my chin. "Rain doesn't bother me."

He steps closer. "What's this?" he asks, indicating the bower.

I look down and grab a twig to fiddle with. "Where I'll be staying tonight."

He approaches the vines and peers inside. "Nice and roomy, darling."

What I _want_ to do is scream at him to leave me alone. But I know that he won't, unless I prove to him in some other way that forcing himself on me is not an activity he wants to pursue. May the odds be ever in my favor.

"I guess it is," I reply.

He turns to look at me again. "So, I take it you're not interested in coming back with me?"

"That's right."

"Do you think that's wise, Madge?"

It's the first time he's said my name and I don't like it at all. For some reason I feel that anonymity would make this so much easier to deal with. Still, I have a part to play, and I don't have much choice.

"What could possibly happen?" I ask, trying to downplay the hostility in my voice.

"There are bears out here, you know. And it does get awfully dark."

Sure. Try to scare me with stories of wild animals again. And, yes, it does get dark out here. But heads up, buddy: I haven't had to sleep with a nightlight in years. Not to mention that I recently witnessed the decimation of my home. I'm a little desensitized to things that go bump in the night – except nasty perverts like you.

That is, of course, what I'd like to say, but instead I squeak. "Bears?"

Liquor's mouth quirks up at the corners. "And it's going to cool down, what with the rain and all."

One of my fingers is starting to swell from the blisters, so I quickly hug my arms around my waist to hide them. Fortunately, this makes me look vulnerable. "You think so?"

"I know so." He smirks.

I sigh. "Well…"

He holds out a hand to me. "Don't be stubborn, darling."

Hesitantly, I hold out my hand for him to grab, which he does. Before I know it, he's pulling me to my feet. But he doesn't let go of my hand.

I didn't think he would.

"Your hands are cold."

"No, they…. Yes. A little."

"And you're shaking," he continues.

I swallow. Let him think it from the cold. "I'm all right."

Liquor grazes his other hand across my cheek. "You don't have to be so tough, you know. Let me take care of you."

Let me vomit on you. Ugh. I don't say anything though, looking meekly away instead.

"Are you going to fight me tonight?" he asks. Slowly, I shake my head, which is the only confirmation he needs to believe that his seduction is working. Before I know it, he drops the spear and pulls me into his arms, crushing me into his chest. "That's better," he growls down my neck.

Then I feel his lips hot on my shoulder, and my eyes pop.

Because I do feel afraid. And out of control. And his grip on me is very, very strong. One of his hands slips all the way down my back and pulls me roughly into him. What I feel there is not encouraging. My heart beats fast, like the wings of a humming bird, but with the painful force of a waterfall. It hurts, but he takes it as a sign that I am responding positively to his ministrations.

Liquor paws at my shirt, and my whole body jumps in reaction to his other hand on my breast.

"Stop," I order. He is brought to check by the tone of my voice and stops sucking on my neck.

"We're doing this my way or not at all." I try to sound sultry, but my voice sounds pragmatic and wooden.

Still, he gives me a leering grin.

It takes all my willpower to mask the fear and loathing coursing through my body. "Close your eyes."

He does so, enjoying the game; not guessing that I don't want him to see my embarrassed fumbling and disgust. I peel his hands off of me and remove his shirt. Beneath, his chest is covered in coarse, black hair, like a bear. I throw the shirt down in the pile of ivy. Hopefully the material will absorb the poisonous oil while I work him out of the rest of his clothing.

My stomach churns as I unbutton his trousers. The leer on his face deepens into an evil grimace as they slip from his waist. His shorts are next. Ugh. I don't want to do this – to see him – but I have to keep up the ruse if I am going to really get him where it hurts.

When I hesitate he hooks his thumbs into each side of the elastic and is about to pull them down, but I swat his hands away.

"I said no."

I said the wrong thing.

A husky chuckle breaks through his lips, and with shock I realize that this has turned him on even more. _So wrong_. I shudder in revulsion, but force myself to grip the elastic and slowly pull the shorts down until they fall in a pile around his ankles.

Ew.

No wonder Katniss didn't want to see Peeta naked.

Although, Peeta was in a lot better shape than Liquor, I would think.

And I know one thing is absolutely true and vital to this whole operation: there is no way that he is touching me with that thing.

I order him to step out of the shorts, and they end up in the heap of clothes. "Keep your eyes shut." I lead him to the bower. "Lie down."

He does. My heart is still pounding with the same frantic energy, and it grows painful as he opens his eyes, taking in the bower, honing back in on me – fully dressed. Not that it stops him from leching.

"What now, darling?"

"My turn," I reply huskily. "Just watch."

His eyes are fixed on me as I remove my shirt, then lift my camisole, achingly slow, over my stomach, up my ribcage, almost to my breasts. He doesn't notice my foot tripping the stick in the ground.

What he notices is the swarm of red welts on my torso and the uncomfortable sensation on his lardy behind. With a thin ribbon of satisfaction I watch him shift a little, unsure of what he's feeling and seeing. And as I pull the shirt over my head, he can't help but stare at me in his aroused state. I pretend that I am unhooking my bra when the ivy falls on him in tangled ropes, covering him from the knees to his chest.

He blinks in surprise. "What?" he grunts, fingering a vine.

"All part of the game, love," I croon, grabbing my shirt and the spear. He starts to struggle with the vines. "That'll teach you to keep your package in your pants." Then I take a swing with the spear and crack him over the head. It stuns him, but not for long. When I try to take a second hit, he grabs the spear out of my hands.

"I'm going to kill you," he swears loudly.

But I am already making a dash for it.

* * *

TBC

_Thanks again to Ceylon205 for beta-ing this chapter. All remaining mistakes are mine. _

List of OCs:

Liquor: D12 man

Water: D12 man, friend of Liquor

Hester: Community Home dorm officer, 19-20 years old

Tansy: Community Home girl, 16-17 yrs

Aster: Community Home girl, 15-16 yrs

Mallow: CH girl, 11 yrs


	7. Chapter 6

Sorry this chapter is late! RL is beating me up. Wish me luck - just applied to grad school.

**And So We Run Redux**

**Chapter 6**

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* * *

  
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_Gale's POV_

It's one of those cool, summer afternoons in the foothills just after a rain. Last night, in order to keep dry we huddled under a piece of tarp I strung up from adjacent trees with some rope. Although it stopped raining with the dawn, the ground is still wet, soaking up into our pant legs while we've been standing around or climbing through undergrowth.

"I think that's enough lessons for today, kids." I stretch my aching arms, dodging the acorn Bristel throws my way for calling him a kid. My right arm throbs dully, still recovering from the wounds, and it's having a hard time adjusting _back_ to using a bow daily. You'd think that with the constant muscle use in the mines that simply pulling back a string would be a cinch, but I'm learning, slow and painful, that archery strains the muscles in different ways. "Just remember to stand steady, Rory. If you can keep that posture without even thinking, then you will hit your mark with consistency."

Rory grunts, handing my bow back to me. "You make it sound easy."

My brother has been chanting this for the last thirty miles, which is the whole that we've walked in the days that followed the bombing. Unfortunately, about ten of those miles were making up for starting in the wrong direction, when I thought we could stay at the cabin. I've pushed them on, though, and everyone's held up pretty well, considering. Today is a rest day, to find food and give our bodies time to recuperate. Well, most of us.

"It is easy if you aren't trying to actually hit anything," Bristel quips, as he shoulders Katniss's quiver, which I guess is his quiver now.

"Har har."

"Knock it off, both of you." Hell's teeth. Bristel behaves more like Rory's older brother than I do. And after a week of their brotherly affection, I'm ready to string them up like rabbits in a snare. "We should head back. I'm getting hungry."

Rory shrugs, heading back up the path. "Sure."

Bristel steps in stride with me. "I'd think you'd be a little more cheerful, Gale. After all, you're the only one who shot anything," he says. "As usual." Then he falls behind me as the path narrows.

"With a gimpy arm, no less," Rory grouses over his shoulder.

"I am cheerful," I retort, batting a tree branch out of my way. "So shut up, anyway."

The branch narrowly avoids Bristel's face. "I would feel affronted, but I can tell that you're grinning on the inside."

I can't help it. As usual, Bristel gets me to laugh. So, I stop and punch him in the arm.

Because laughter is hell on my ribs.

When we get back to the glade where we've made camp, I unload my game bag while Bristel and Rory wash up. We (which actually means me) shot some rabbits, quail, and a possum, which will be enough for two days. But besides meat, we gathered yellowy mushrooms, dandelions, wild onion, and raspberries. Meat is good for keeping a body full, but fruits and greens keep a body healthy. And we can't really afford to get sick right now.

I lay everything out on one of the logs we rolled in from the forest. The camp is a little more cozy than usual, since we're lingering longer. A few logs rest in a triangle around a fire pit, with a knocked down pile of kindling we're trying to dry out. Our bags are piled under the tarp that's still hanging up. High in the branch of an old oak, I've strung a rope for my game bag. The meat that's meant for later will go up there after I've cleaned it, hoisted up on the rope, far enough from the ground to keep predators out of reach.

"What's that?" Prim asks from behind me as she comes to collect the greens. I turn to see that she's pointing at a grey, furry carcass.

"Rabbit."

"That's a rabbit?" she cries. Her eyes grow wide and a little watery. "I didn't know they were so cute!"

"Cute on a dinner plate," Rory replies, deadpan, as he emerges from the woods with Bristel. I thwap him upside the head. This is what happens when kids only see animals in a stewpot and not in the wild. Or when, as often as not, kids don't see them at all. They get all attached and sentimental.

Prim looks mortified. She quickly joins her mom on one of the logs, putting together some of the greens to boil. I know Katniss took her out into the woods once or twice and tried teaching her to hunt. I can see why they didn't pursue it further.

"Maybe you should have skinned them first, Gale," my mom says, giving me a meaningful look from where she's sewing up one of Vick's shirts. I roll my eyes, really not used to dealing with sensitive females on a fulltime basis. And patience isn't one of my high points. If Katniss were here, she'd be teasing me about my less-perfect-than-Katniss aim ruining the pelt, not jawing about leaving cute, murdered bunnies out for the kids to see.

And it's not like they haven't seen worse lately.

When I turn around to take care of the rabbit and quails, the rabbit is gone. "What the…_Posy_." My little sister is waddling away from the clearing, cradling the rabbit to her tiny chest. She ducks her head when I say her name. "Come back here."

She turns to look at me with a pout, the rabbit flopping morbidly in her arms. "It's my baby, Gale."

"Gross." Rory gags.

"Give it back, kiddo." I hold out my hand for it. Her mouth quivers and her eyes grow wide. Oh no. "Don't you dare cry," I order, pointing at her with my index finger in a way that says I mean business. "It won't _work_. I'm too tough."

But she keeps squeezing the rabbit in her arms, grey eyes large and soulful, while the corpse bunny stares at me with empty, beady eyes of its own. And I'm starting to wonder what's the harm in letting her have it for a little while longer if it makes her happy…we could save it for tomorrow and sneak it back into my game bag when she's asleep…

"Posy, that isn't a toy. It's dinner." Mom says, swooping in to extricate the animal from Posy's grimy little fingers and hands it back to me with a look that suggests I man up a little. "Clean it quickly."

"I'm just going to go take care of this, then," I mutter, retreating into the woods with my kill and my knife.

"Good idea," I hear her call over Posy's sniffling. Who's running this crew anyway? Mom's been snapping at me a lot since the bombing, and it's grating my nerves.

Leaving our camp, I take maybe twenty steps down an incline bordered by the broad-leaved plants called coltsfoot, to a shallow creek. Katniss used to collect these for her mom, since they are an ingredient in cough syrup. Deftly as I can with an injured arm, I clean the skin from the rabbit carcass, along with two of the quails, removing the blood and entrails. I leave the gut pile for scavengers to find. Then I wash off some of the coltsfoot leaves to wrap it all up in.

Setting the meat aside, I linger by the stream a little while after I'm done; taking care to wash my hands in the clear water of the shallow creek bed, scraping out the gore from under my fingernails. Crouching down, I can see my reflection amid the stones in the water. I guess it's the right time to grow a beard, although, at this point, it's not much of one. I chuckle to myself, though, because it's growing in better than Bristel's. His resembles a mangy dog hide. Not that either of us has a choice about facial hair anymore. Bringing the razor and strop wasn't high on the list of survival gear. Still, I need to trim along the lip before eating gets awkward.

I dry off my hands on my trousers and look around. It's quiet in the forest. Besides the trickle of water, there's nothing but some birdsong and the occasional zip of a dragonfly. It's nice to be alone once in a while, to think about things. Or not to think about things. I like that, too. The greenery on the banks of the creek grows right up to my chest in some places, flowers blooming in clumps of oranges, reds, and yellows. Some of them I recognize. Some, not so much. Katniss was better in that area. That's why we worked so well together. We each made up for what the other lacked. We're a team.

We were supposed to be. Always.

Sometimes the world goes all wrong.

I remember thinking just after I met that scrawny little Catnip in the woods, and she swapped some archery lessons for a lecture on snares, that maybe when something terrible happened, like my dad's death, then something good would turn up in its place. Now I guess not, because good things get stolen away again. Then I'm left feeling worse than if she'd never turned up, at all.

So Katniss is gone, so the district is gone. It'd take an awful lot of goodness to show up to counter all that badness. And what kind of hell would it be if that also got taken away someday?

And wouldn't it be nice, just once in my life, to have a body to bury. To say one last goodbye.

I need to say goodbye to Katniss. I don't know if I can.

I blow out a long, frustrated breath, thinking this is why I don't wander off on my own too much anymore. It only makes me think; which, I remember, is what I wanted to do in the first place. But, just like every other time, I realize what a bad idea it is after the fact.

Grabbing my kill, I head back through the coltsfoot to camp. I pass Bristel halfway. He likes to make a production out of offering to collect water for meals. _That way the mothers won't ask me to gut the_ _meat_, he says. _Like they'd let you_, I reply. Bristel couldn't wrangle a sandwich together, let alone fix coon steaks or roast cony.

Everyone else is busy doing their own thing, and don't seem to notice when I return. That happens. We've spent a lot of time falling into silence on this trek. Eventually, Bristel returns with the drinking water, which Posy purifies in the absence of Vick.

Then, just as I put the meat on a spit to roast, Vick comes tearing into the circle looking freaked out. This is the first time I've seen him since the morning. He skids to a stop, spraying gravel into the fire pit.

"Watch it," I grouse, checking the meat over for dirt.

"Gale, I found something in the meadow while I was playing," he says in a hushed voice. "You gotta come."

I look around. The girls just went down to the creek to wash up for dinner. Rory and Bristel give me looks saying I'm on my own, so I stand up, wipe my hands off on my pants, and follow him away into the woods.

"What is it?" I ask eventually.

"Um…I saw someone" he gulps. "I think she's dead."

I blanch. "A person?"

"Yeah." And I can see in his eyes that it's true.

"Who?"

"I don't know."

Well, it was a stupid question anyway. So, I step up the pace to see who it is that Vick's found.

After a half mile, the trees thin out and we step into the meadow that Vick says he found while exploring. Long grass grows in the open space, dotted over with red, purple and yellow wildflowers. A maple tree grows on its own a little east of center. Vick leads me toward it. His shoulders are set straight like they are when he's made up his mind to do something unpleasant.

"Vick," I call. "You can wait here." He's been through enough in the last week or so. Poor kid still gets the shakes at night because of the bombing. "Just point me in the right direction."

He stops and says, "She's under the tree."

"I'll find her."

"I can come with you," Vick says, but I can tell by the pallor of his face that he's scared.

I grip his shoulder, saying, "I know you can, but you don't have to."

He doesn't. I approach the maple by myself, wondering what I'm going to find. Imagining the worst: a fresh corpse bloated in the summer heat; or bones and shreds of vestigial flesh; or someone too young to die. The mental pictures are not pretty. So, when I am a yard away from the tree and spot Vick's dead woman, the paradigm building in my head shifts so completely, that anyone would look better than the images I'd been ruminating over.

Curled up in the long grass is the wettest, filthiest angel I've ever seen.

Wearing familiar pajamas.

I've only seen three girls in their pajamas. Prim, Posy, and…

"It can't be," I say under my breath. What are the odds that we would find Madge Undersee wandering around in the middle of the wilderness? Well, not so much wandering as laying there in a ball. "Madge?"

"Do you know her?" Vick calls.

"This is the girl I had to get out of the district," I reply as I kneel down by her side. "Madge?" There are pieces of grass in her hair, which frames her face in limp waves. Dirt and grass stains are matted into her clothes. Fresh, red welts cover her arms, face, and neck. And she's skinnier than I've ever seen her. Hungry skinny. But other than that, she looks sound.

"I tried talking to her, but she didn't move," Vick tells me. He's still standing at a distance, shifting from foot to foot.

"I think she's still breathing, Vick," I tell him. She hasn't responded to my calls, though, so I lean down to check her pulse. Just as my fingers brush her throat, her eyes open and she explodes into a fit of limbs and hair.

"Whoa!" she cries. Our foreheads collide, knocking me on my backside while she scrambles backward. She stops a few feet away, clutching her shirt just above her chest and breathing quickly. Her eyes are wild and I can't even tell if she recognizes me.

Slowly, I get to my feet and start to walk toward her.

She cringes away from me and puts her hand up. "Don't."

I stop mid-stride and cast a questioning glance at Vick. His face is a mask of consternation, matching the way I feel. Questions buzz around my head, distracting me. Maybe she's in shock? But why? And why doesn't she respond to words, but is triggered by touch?

"Vick," I murmur. "Go get Mom or Mrs. Everdeen." I glance back at Madge, shivering and hiding. "Or maybe both."

"Good idea," he whispers, and hightails it out of the meadow.

After he leaves, I start talking to her again, but stay standing right where I am. "Madge? It's Gale Hawthorne." She's still cowering in the grass, so I repeat myself. "Gale Hawthorne from the Seam. District 12." Maybe if I keep saying something familiar she'll snap out of it? "I'm Katniss's friend, just like you…" I keep talking, repeating my name, and Katniss's name, and Madge's name until I see her breathing slow to a pace closer to normal. "You're okay now."

Slowly, her hand comes down and she looks at me hard, squinting her eyes and biting her lip with concentration. Finally, she says, "Gale Hawthorne?" It's more of a croak than a saying, but I can hear a note of wonder in it. And then she just stares at me for so long it's uncomfortable. I don't know her well enough to read her, or guess what she's thinking. "I don't believe it."

"That makes two of us."

Her face flushes. "I've never seen you with a beard."

I have to choke down a laugh. Out of all the things I expected to come out of her mouth after freaking out like she did, that wasn't it. "No barbers in the wild," I reply.

She grimaces. "I thought you were someone else."

Someone else, huh? Who would she expect to run into out here? "No. I'm Gale Hawthorne," I reply, for emphasis. I take a step toward her and she doesn't cringe away again, but she does look down. "Are you hurt?"

Her face goes blank, like I've asked her to for the answer to a tricky equation.

"Never mind," I continue, deciding to try concentrate on something more basic. "Do you think you can get up?"

Madge nods, and slowly gets to her feet. "Oh," she moans, clutching her head. Then she wobbles badly and I have to be quick on my feet to catch her.

But I nearly drop her, while a grunt escapes my lips.

"Are you all right?" Madge cries, suddenly alert as the paroxysm in my side announces itself all over my face.

"Yeah," I gasp, my mouth twisting with pain.

"You are _not_," she hisses. "Put me down."

I do, and kneel down with her, clutching my sides.

"What happened to you?" she asks, reaching out to touch the bandage peeking out from my frayed sleeve, then the area of my chest just above where I'm holding. "Is this from the bombing?"

Madge's eyes are bright with concern, which is funny since she's can't stand up without falling over from dizziness. She's confusing like that. One moment she's not to touch her, the next second she's practically ripping my shirt off to make sure _I'm _okay.

"Gale?" My mom is on her way across the field. "Who is it? Vick said…"

Madge startles like a deer, but stays where she is with her hand on my arm.

"See for yourself," I say through gritted teeth. Seeing the two of them together nettles me, a reminder of the secret that connects them.

Mom inhales sharply. "Oh dear. Is that Madge?"

The girl just blinks up at my mother as though she's forgotten how to speak again. But Mom has no qualms about personal space or skittish girls, and kneels right down in front of Madge and all put pulls her into her lap. Our little huddle in the grass is starting to feel a little exclusive. Never mind that I'm the one in pain. So I sit back on my heels and watch.

"We wondered what happened to you," she says, gripping Madge's chin. "What _did_ happen to you? Were you alone?"

Madge looks so thoroughly confused by the turn of events that I take pity on her.

"Back off a little, Mom," I chide. "You're overwhelming her."

"Nonsense," she retorts. "Madge, what happened to you?"

"I don't know – I mean I do, but…" She mumbles on, completely disoriented.

"Never mind, you can tell us later. Up you go." Mom pulls her up by the elbow, and keeps holding on as Madge wobbles some more. "You need some looking after."

"Just a little hungry, that's all," Madge murmurs reluctantly. "I hurt Gale's ribs—"

And just like that mom is marching her back to camp. After a few empty, wondering moments, I follow after them.

Back at camp, Bristel tends the meat, whistling _Colliers March_ under his breath. When he sees Madge, he jumps to his feet. "Well, hello."

I motion for him to back off, which he does with cheerful indifference.

Mrs. E takes over immediately, setting the girl down on a log and looking at her, poking, listening, lifting up the hair off her neck and looking down the back of her shirt, then feeling her forehead. Madge stares at her like she's seeing a ghost. Or maybe she's thinking of Katniss. They exchange a few words in very hushed voices. Prim sits down next to Madge and squeezes her hand.

"No sign of fever," Mrs. E eventually murmurs to herself. "Poison itch."

A manic gleam enters Madge's eyes and she grins like an urchin. "Yes."

She's delirious, I decide.

Mrs. E blinks and I think the decision is unanimous. "Prim, get some water on."

Prim does as she's told. I help stoke up the fire so that kettle will boil faster.

"What's the water for?" Rory asks Prim. He is always curious about the way she treats people's ailments. But Mrs. E ignores everyone else when she's working on someone, so he takes to bothering Prim.

Prim shakes her head. "Tea? A bath?"

Vick wrinkles his nose. "Where's she gonna take a bath?"

"Not in front of you," I rib quietly in his ear so that Madge doesn't hear. He's at the age where girls are either gross or goddesses. Either way, he reacts to both with abashed confusion.

"I need to have a better look," Mrs. E says to Madge, indicating the removal of clothing.

"Here?" she squeaks, wrapping her arms around herself.

Vick looks alarmed, too. I roll my eyes.

"Gale can let down a side of the tarp for privacy," Mom says.

They turn to look at me. "Um, sure."

Rory helps me untie the tarp on two corners. It's silly, though. Modesty isn't very convenient in the wild. And it's not as though any of us would look to begin with, especially Vick who's turning puce, but it seems to help Madge relax a bit.

The water boils and Prim uses some to make a cup of herbal tea for Madge, handing her one of our battered tin mugs. The rest Mrs. E pours into a bowl and then retrieves a small, square cloth from her bag. She ushers Madge behind the screen.

Madge doesn't say much, just follows orders. Posy's curiosity gets the better of her, and she wanders over. She just peeks around the edge like the sneaker that she is, and plays with the tarp. She swings it while watching what's going on until Mom shoos her away. I tell Posy to come sit with me, which she does grudgingly. I pull her into my lap, turning my back away. But, I can hear the mothers talking to one another.

"The oil is on her clothing, too. I need to wash it off to stop the spreading."

"Do you have anything for it?"

"Just some salt."

"Salt? That really works. Rhys used to come home with awful, itching rashes and it lasted for weeks. Calamine never seemed to work."

"Salt works. I wish I had vinegar, too, though. We don't have enough to treat her _whole_ body. Do you think Gale would recognize touch-me-nots? They don't dry well, so I haven't got any in my kit."

"Maybe?"

"They aren't hard to find, usually in low, moist areas. I could make a salve."

"We have to get her washed up, anyway. That little bit of water isn't going to be enough. I can help you look by the creek, then."

"True. Madge, put your shirt back on. We'll take you down to the creek."

When they emerge, Madge's freshly scrubbed face is bright red. Whether from the scrubbing, the rash, or embarrassment (or all three), is hard to tell. Mom grabs one of the blankets from her pack and also a brush. Madge actually shudders with delight when Mom hands her a cake of soap.

My mother and Mrs. Everdeen must have managed to strip her down and get both her and her clothes into the stream. She's so weak that I can hear my mom splashing into the water with her. When they climb back up the bank, Madge is clean, hair combed, and shivering underneath the blanket she's wrapped in. Her tattered clothes are left to dry on low branches. Mrs. E carries a rag tag bouquet of orange and red colored impatiens I saw earlier, and quickly sets to work crushing them in one of our snap tins.

Mom plonks Madge down on a log near the fire again and turns her attention back to the meal, while Prim offers to braid Madge's hair for her. Posy gets away from me and stands real close to Madge, gazing up at the girl. Madge backs away a little, as the child invades her personal space. I should say something, but it's kind of funny. So I watch while Posy's face screws up in concentration. After a moment or two, she slaps her hand against Madge's forehead like she's violently checking for a fever and cries, "measles!"

To her everlasting credit, Madge neither jumps, nor yells, or anything. Her eyes just cross as she looks up at the arm hanging in her face, blinking confusion. This might be a good time to intervene. I say, "Posy, sit down and leave her alone," and am rewarded with a less-confused blink in my general direction.

Posy wriggles up next to Madge and fishes around in the blanket until she finds what she's looking for, which is Madge's blotchy hand. "When someone holds your hand, you feel better," she chants. I swallow back a laugh, since it's me she's quoting. One thing is certain, Posy's bedside manner is terrible, but she is cute. Hopefully she's won't get any ideas about curing Madge by herself.

A ghost of a smile flits over Madge's chapped lips and her fingers curl around Posy's little hand. "Thank you."

Posy is enchanted.

"What's your name?" Madge asks after a few moments of being gazed at by a mesmerized five-year-old.

"I'm Posy Hawthorne," says my sister. She fixates at Madge's hair like she hasn't seen a blond before. "And what's your name?"

Madge blinks some more. She does that a lot. "Um, I'm Madge?"

"You have to cover your eyes, Madge," Posy tells her with the serious conviction of a child.

"Why?"

"Cause you have measles, like me."

"Posy, Madge doesn't have measles." My mom's voice drifts across the camp. "And neither do you anymore."

"I have a scar on my nose," says Posy to Madge, pointing to a tiny indent on the right side of the bridge of her nose. "Cause I scratched the bumps. Do you have a scar?"

Posy's one-sided conversation continues in this vein all the way through dinner, until Mom puts her to bed.

We try to mostly overlook Madge while she struggles to eat and modestly hold the blanket around herself. After a few minutes struggle, and Madge's growing frustration, my mom asks if she had anything else with her that might have been left in the meadow.

Madge shakes her head. "I didn't have anything with me."

"What about that pack?" I ask.

Her face goes blank again, and she shrugs. "Lost it."

"Well, your clothes won't dry any time soon, especially with the humidity," Mom tells her. "I suppose we can lend you something. Then you won't have to struggle so much with that silly blanket. Let's see…"

She wanders off to the packs and rummages around. She brings back one of her dresses, but it's clearly too big for Madge. My mom is a slight woman, but she's tall. And Madge, well, isn't much in terms of height, despite how tall her dad is…was. Prim offers some of her clothes, and although they're close in height, she's even scrawnier than half-starved Madge. Eventually, the women narrow the selection down to one of Rory's flannel shirts and grey corduroy trousers. That is, they were my shirt and trousers handed down to Rory. And if we ever get them back from Madge, I suppose they'll belong to Vick one day.

And now Posy won't be able to stick her nose up at 'em either, one day.

My thoughts on this vein are broken as Mrs. E takes Madge back behind the tarp to help her apply the poison itch salve before getting dressed. She must have gotten it all over, judging by how long they're behind that thing. When they're finished and come out again, Madge is dressed, but possessively keeps the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"When's the last time you had a blanket?" I ask.

She gives me a sharp look. "Since I got dragged out of bed back home."

Her words dig into me like a barb. My mom steps in before I can retort. "Well, you can hold onto that one. Posy and I will share."

"Are you sure?" Madge asks, like she's just realizing that we have a limited supply. She starts to unwrap it, but my mom pats her shoulder, stopping her.

"We don't mind. Besides, it's warmer with two."

Madge's shoulders slump like she's ashamed of herself for something. "Okay."

She fades out of the conversation, which centers around our day, what everybody did, what we'll do tomorrow. After the last indigo strokes of sunset fade to darkness, the others go to bed, leaving just the two of us. Madge, I guess, doesn't know what to do with herself, so she does nothing. Whereas, I'm the last one up. Always. It's my job to make sure everyone's all right before I rest.

We sit in silence for a while, which starts to grow on my nerves. So I throw an extra log on the fire, "chopped" this morning by Bristel. He calls it chopping, but it's more like lifting what's already fallen from the trees. But it's more than I could do, especially at the beginning when my upper body wasn't doing so well. Thank goodness he's here, I think, since he's one of my best friends. And he actually has something to contribute. I have to make sure he's fed, which, let me tell you is a lot of work. But he picks up his end of things, unlike a certain young woman who turned up out of nowhere just to haunt me.

And I'm glad he's all right. I wish I knew about Thom. I wish I _really_ knew about Katniss. It's only been a week, but I already forget the way her voice inflects when she says certain words, or how she smelled.

Strange week. Strange _day_.

I turn my back on Madge to check the tree where I've hung my game bag. It's secure, which I knew it would be, but I don't really want to look at her when I say, "So, have you been alone all this time? What happened after the fence?"

Silence.

I catch myself grinding my teeth. With Katniss, silence is just silence. With Madge, silence is like emptiness. It makes me want to shake her. Shake off the confusion and the _blankness_.

"I joined with a group of girls and," she murmurs after a time, then chokes. "And some others. After the bombing, everyone just started running together. I didn't know what else to do, and then…" she stops.

I turn around to face her. "Why were you by yourself, then?"

She shrugs and looks away. "Because."

Well, there's a pretty dancer. Really tells me a lot. I snort under my breath. "Okay. And when did this happen?" I'm referring to the poison itch.

"Yesterday. I laid in it," she says matter-of-factly.

Huh. I let out a low whistle. I guess I've taken it for granted how difficult it can be out here for people who don't know anything about the woods.

"You didn't recognize poison ivy?" Katniss would know bet—

"Of course, I did," she snaps. "I'm not an idiot. I rolled in the leaves _on_ _purpose_."

_What? _I feel my face twist in confusion. My eyebrows must be lost in my hairline. "Explain to me how that isn't idiotic?" I reply slowly.

She doesn't explain. Her face closes off again and there's a hunted look in her eyes.

"It's getting late, so maybe we should just go to bed," I say lamely. The conversation is just awkward and strange. Seeing Madge again is strange. Seeing Madge dressed up in my brother's clothes; smeared in a salve that makes the blisters on her skin shiny in the firelight. is beyond strange. And I don't know how we managed to meet up again on this convoluted journey. Don't understand _why_ it's her of all people to come out of nowhere.

Life just goes sideways sometimes, I guess.

I bank the fire, then kick around at a patch of ground till it's clear of stones and twigs. Madge just sits on the log, staring at the embers, unmoving. Maybe not even thinking either, with her face as blank as an eggshell. Well, I'm not going to tell her where to lie down. Still, I watch her through slitted eyes for a while from my blanket, because I'm always the last one up. But she just stares and stares and eventually sleep overtakes me.

* * *

TBC

_Thanks for reading! _

Rhys Hawthorne: What I have dubbed Mr. Hawthorne.

AN: I researched hunting and cleaning an animal _after_ I wrote this chapter. *rolls eyeballs* Hopefully I didn't kill the characters off by having Gale wait all day to clean 'em. For the record, he would have known to do it right away, but I needed an excuse to get him to the creek for a few minutes of angst. ;)

Shameless plug: Ceylon205 has a Madge-centric _Moments _in the works, so keep an eye out for that. Also, MoonNRoses has a different version of how things worked out for Madge and Gale, and I could really use an update (nudge nudge). And some Haymitch/Effie love would be good, too.


	8. Chapter 7

**Edit: **Apologies! I was fixing a typo in this chapter and accidentally submitted it as a new chapter, instead of replacing it. Sorry for the confusion if you received an alert!

**AN**: You know, when it comes to Katniss, I am Team Peeta all the way. But that doesn't mean that for every one of Peeta's triumphs, that my heart doesn't break a little for Gale. Which is probably why I write him. The boy deserves a happy ending. However, for this chapter I'd like to cite Major Frank Burns of M.A.S.H. when he said, "I want foxholes there, there, there and there -- each one smartly dug. The kind of hole a man can throw himself into with pride." Let the digging commence.

Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta-ing. I've decided to put any remaining mistakes up for auction. Any takers?

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_Madge's POV_

The way the embers flicker looks like rich, orange liquid. I wonder how something solid can do that. They seem more likely to spread into a puddle than to crumble to ash. My eyes are dry from watching them. Is he asleep yet? I wish he would stop watching me and fall asleep, so I can decide if I'm going to go with them – wherever that is – or not.

What kind of a decision is that? What would I possibly do on my own?

My memories flip back on themselves: running from Liquor; seeing Gale in the meadow; _recognizing_ him, Hazelle's words to me by the creek. She means to take care of me. For my mother's sake, she said. Because my mom helped her son.

I feel my lips tremble.

Gale saves me from Piggy. I owe Gale.

I bring Gale morphling. Even.

The morphling belonged to my mother. Hazelle owes my mom, she's decided.

Hazelle sends Gale to drag me out of Twelve alive. Even.

I end up in a meadow, starved and exhausted, after fleeing for my life from my attacker.

Gale shows up. Somehow. Out of the vast wilderness, we pick the same coordinates. Impossible. Serendipitous. Whatever.

Everything tangles together in this complex game of obligation.

Everything's a game.

…

_Gale's_ _POV_

In the night I dreamed of Katniss. Not the usual dreams where I'm the one holding her instead of _him_. The ones where she kisses me back. Where it's only us in the woods back home, and I can see her like she always is. Grubby hunting clothes, a long braid down her back. That rare smile. Beautiful. Spunky. Cut throat. No, in this dream she had blotchy, green skin that flaked and scabbed. It's the rash from the nerve gas. The bumps all over her body, scabbing off beneath the green medicine. Flashes of how she helped Peeta rub the scabs off with sand…. My mind rehashing it over and over again. Every time they touched, acting or not, it tore at me. He held her in ways she would never let me, never in the ways that I've imagined and desired for the last couple years

Even in my dreams I can feel the longing and the betrayal. And anger – red hot and blinding. My flashes of rage against the Capitol do not compare. And I wish with all my heart that the District 4 tribute had left Mellark alone the first day of the Quell. Let him die. So I wouldn't have to watch their last goodbye, the goodbye that I never got, as it cinched any hope of her choosing me.

But for the thousandth time, I ask myself what's the sense in feeling betrayed when the one who cut you isn't even alive anymore. What's the point in feeling hurt by a girl who didn't mean it, who doesn't know herself well enough to realize the truth about what she wants. Who it might affect. So stupid.

I love her. But I need to put that love away. Tear it out. _Forget it_. Need to keep moving forward the way I did when my dad died. It's not a matter of letting her go anymore. I need to let myself go.

When I wake up fully, it's to a clear dawn. Bristel brushes his teeth with the frayed end of a twig. Neither of us sleeps very late anymore, but the others like to wait until after the sun comes up. The Everdeens sleep cheek to cheek. Mom is sandwiched between Posy and Vick, while Rory sleeps behind a log, with his arms over his face. His mouth hangs open. Mouth breather.

A little distance from everyone else, Madge sleeps curled up in a ball under the cover of a gnarled witch hazel tree. The angry, red rash from the poison itch stands out against her ivory skin. Hell's teeth. That must've triggered the dream about Katniss.

_How_ _did_ _Madge_ _become_ _our_ _responsibility_, _anyway_? I wonder uncharitably.

I expel an exasperated breath and roll over onto my side, facing away from her. One more person doesn't make a difference out here, so I don't know what my problem is. Out of Katniss's other friends, Madge always managed to get under my skin. Not in the way Haymitch Abernathy or Peeta Mellark did. They are obvious irritants. Madge bugs me, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it's how quiet she is? Katniss and I aren't verbose, but like I've thought before – not talking for us is simply not talking. But Madge keeps secrets. It irks me, the way her face closes off, but there's something going on behind those cool, blue eyes. But she won't just come out and say what she's thinking. And it's infuriating that I to want to know, when I shouldn't.

I mean, I _don't_. Let's just get that straight.

"When you've finished daydreaming, how about fixing some breakfast, handsome?" I hear a voice from behind me.

"Make your own damn breakfast, Bristel," I growl, turning on my back again.

"Please, you're overpowering me with your sunny disposition," he drawls.

"Shut up."

"Fine, I'll make breakfast. Where's my blowtorch?"

I sit up with a groan, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with my palms. "If only I didn't think you were serious."

"Works great for making those little char lines when you don't have a griddle." Bristel replies, grinning through his beard.

"You're the only miner I know who 'grills' his dog and potato pasty."

"Ovens are tricky," he shrugs self-deprecatingly. "At least I got training with a torch."

"Your mother failed you."

The quiet banter continues in this manner while I rummage through the pack containing the rest of our fruit and dried meat from home. Now that we can get the fresh stuff, we might as well use up the jerky. With a little warming it tastes like bacon. Sort of.

"I could go for some eggs," Bristel muses.

I wave a hand at the trees while resurrecting yesterday's fire. "Go for it. Nests everywhere."

Bristel harrumphs and takes the water bucket down to the creek. By now everyone is starting to stir. I dig my boot into Rory's side to subtly let him know that his assistance would be appreciated.

"Gerroff," he says into his sleeve.

"Up, lazy britches." In truth, Rory isn't lazy. He really stepped up while I couldn't work, and I appreciate that. Still, rising early isn't his thing. A trait we'll never share. He rolls onto his other side, away from my boot. "Posy, get him."

The little girl launches herself at Rory, planting wet, giggly kisses on his face while he flails around. "Ugh. Gross!"

"Wake up, Rory!" she cries, giggling. Vick sits up and only takes the time to brush his hair out of his face before he joins the assault, holding Rory down while they tickle him.

Bristel returns with water. He stops to take in the scene. "Still hasn't learned?"

"Nope."

Somehow Rory manages to sit up despite the two bodies trying to pin him down. He has Vick in a chokehold, but Posy clings to his neck. "Posy," he gasps. "Go get the new girl."

"_Rory_," I start to warn, but Posy scampers toward the hazel tree where Madge…isn't anymore.

When did she…how did I not notice?

"Oh, Ma-adge!" Posy chants.

"Hush, Posy. She'll come back soon." Probably just wanted some privacy.

And she does, face clean, but still red. She's bleeding a little bit on her chin, probably from scratching. Rory's shirt clings where she dried her face. It's unbuttoned, except for one or two below her chest. She's put her undershirt back on. And in her hands – the shredded remains of her pajama pants. Were they really that bad yesterday?

Madge stops when she notices everyone watching her. "Um…good morning."

"Madge!" Posy runs up to her and snatches her hand. "Sit with me."

She follows my sister without a word, and they settle in next to Prim.

The mothers and Prim start asking her questions about how she's feeling physically, careful to steer around anything too personal. I ignore them.

Rory passes around tins and mugs, while I brew a pot of "coffee." Since nobody can afford true coffee beans we rely on the roasted roots of a wayside herb called chicory. I don't know how it holds up, but since Mrs. Everdeen is the only one who's ever had the real thing, I guess it doesn't matter. Tastes fine to me.

Once it's steeped, I pour everyone a mug. Even Posy, although she tends to bully Vick into finishing it for her. Then we pass around the fruit and jerky.

"It's plain fare," I warn Madge, throwing a few strips of meat on her tin.

She blinks, then accepts an apple from Bristel. "I wasn't complaining."

"Just saying." I shrug and move on to offer some to Prim.

We eat.

Eventually Madge pipes up. "Um, my pants were destroyed last night by something. I found them on the ground…" she looks at Rory. "I'm sorry. Do you think…?"

He shrugs. "Keep 'em."

"Thank you, Rory. That's really kind." And she gives him a bright smile that she's reserved for Posy up until now.

Rory looks abashed, yet pleased. Sucker.

"Are they very bad?" Prim asks.

Madge holds up the wad of cloth at her feet. One of the legs is mangled into ribbons. "I wonder what it could have been?" she says.

"Raccoons, maybe," I tell her. "They're mischievous and don't have any qualms about wandering into human company."

Her eyes grow wide. "I'm glad it wasn't something bigger. We hadn't had any trouble with animals, really…." Her voice drifts off, as I assume she thinks over the last few days. Whatever happened, it doesn't seem like she wants to dwell on it too much.

"Come to think of it, neither have we," Bristel muses. "For all Gale's talk of bears and wild dogs."

"They're out there," I drawl, "along with snakes and wolves. And cats the size of coal sheds, who have a taste for small children."

Vick's mouth hangs down to his lap. "Have you ever seen any of those for real?"

"Sure." First I tell them about having to hang in a tree while a pack of wild dogs sniffed around at the trunk. Then, I launch into the story about the lynx that kept Katniss company. "I've never seen behavior like that in wild animals. They're normally pretty skittish around people. We tried scaring it off, but it wouldn't budge. So, Katniss shot it. With her aim, I doubt he felt a thing."

"That's a terrible story," Madge murmurs. "It trusted Katniss and she killed it? It didn't even try to hurt her."

I scowl. "It's an animal, Madge. A nuisance scaring away game we needed to survive."

"Still…it's sad." She chews on her food, thinking. "I think it's sad that we live in a world where we have to choose between surviving and being humane." Then her jaw clenches, and she says dryly, "but that's it, isn't it? We're always in the Hunger Games."

No one has anything to say to this.

Eventually, Prim pipes up. "I wish Katniss hadn't killed the poor lynx, too." She looks disappointed, and I'm reminded of how fundamentally unalike the two sisters were.

"I don't think, now, that she would have killed it," Madge murmurs, patting Prim's back.

"Why not?" I ask scornfully.

"The same reasons she kept Peeta Mellark alive," she replies hesitantly. Prim's face lights up at the thought. A ghost of a smile even threads across Mrs. Everdeen's face – her expression dull with grief for so many days.

But the idea makes my blood run cold.

"You don't know anything." I whisper, but it's fierce.

Madge fixes me with her blue eyes, and I can see the uncertainty there for a moment, and the surprise in the way her lips part. But when she speaks it's with quiet conviction. "I know a few things, Gale Hawthorne. Even if you're too blind to see." She puts the tin down, and breaks the circle without a backward glance.

I can hear mom huff, and I can tell that it's not in my favor.

That's the end of breakfast and I want to move on. While everyone packs up camp, I decide it's up to me to hunt Madge down, since she stomped off.

I find her back by the creek, smearing Mrs. E's salve on her arms. Rory's shirt lies neatly folded on the ground by her hip. She looks up at me as I approach, but doesn't say a word.

"So this is where you ran off to." Which is about as close as I'll come to making amends for my share in our brief yet volatile fight.

"My skin is irritating me. I wanted to put more of this on." She holds up the tin for me to see, though she won't look at me.

Huh, right. Madge's cheeks are still red with anger. She's about as good at lying as Katniss. "We're ready to go," I tell her.

"Am I coming with you?" Madge does look then, turning the full force of her blue eyes on me.

"Isn't that obvious?"

Madge bites her lip. "No, it isn't obvious. I don't know your family. And since you seem to be the one in charge…" She lets the implication hang in the space between us.

"We wouldn't leave you behind." As soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it, because I guess we did leave her behind once already.

And she looks like she's about to argue that point, but snaps her mouth shut instead.

"Just give me a minute, please."

I answer by walking away.

…

The ridge we've been hiking along gradually pushes us northeast. We've been in a valley for two days now, and as the hills fall away into a vale, it reveals beautiful grassland. We pass through the small meadow that Vick found yesterday. Dark outline of trees fringe the western horizon, but ahead of us the land smoothes into natural flowerbeds and the occasional, solitary oak. Our scruffy meadow back home does not compare.

But the beauty of it is nearly lost on me. It's clear we won't make my daily mileage goal. The reason lies at the back of our line, hobbling along. I lead in silence, fuming, schooling my features in a mask of cold indifference. I don't push my family to the limit just because I can. Bad weather, disease, poison, wild animals, _man-eaters_, accidents. Those are all realities out here. I've pushed the kids on because the longer they're out here, the higher the risk. And we need to know if Thirteen is a reality.

And it's all too clear that Madge is messing with my schedule.

"Gale?" It's my mother's voice, calling me. Looking behind I realize that I must have quickened my pace because everyone is straggling far behind me. I slow so that Mom can catch up.

"What?" I snap, when she's only a few feet behind. Everyone else is still far enough away that they can't hear us properly.

She stops for a moment, catching her breath. Then she fixes me with her eyes. "Will you please _try _to get along with Madge?"

"I am," I reply tritely.

"You're not," she insists, shaking her head. "You've been picking on her since she woke up."

I cock an eyebrow in a way that suggests I'm listening, but won't like what she has to say_._

"You talk to her like she's sitting on a couch eating sugar cubes instead of fending for herself in the wild," Mom grouses. "Give the poor girl some credit. We found her in bad shape, but she's been surprisingly resilient. And I can't help but feel that you _want_ the satisfaction of seeing her break down. What that will prove to you, I'm sure I don't know. But I think you're going to be disappointed to find that she will hold up very well."

All right. Maybe there is a side of me that would feel vindicated if Madge Undersee fell to pieces. In my mind, she's a step down from the soft merchant class: the only child of a district official, who always had a full belly, who didn't need to put her life on the line to eat or keep her family from the brink of starvation. Maybe a part of me thinks that she deserves to feel that desperate for once. And maybe it's a little disgruntling to see that she can take it.

Suddenly, the memory of escaping the district with her hijacks my mind. Considering everything, she held up pretty damn well. I remember the look on her face when she realized the district was burning, and what it meant for her parents. And here she is.

Still. It's the principle of the thing. "Madge doesn't get it, what life is like for most people."

"Of course she doesn't. She grew up under different circumstances than you, which makes it doubly hard for her to adjust to what's happened. That isn't her fault, or cause for resentment. As far as I can tell, she's trying very hard to see things from your point of view. You're the one who won't yield."

"Yield? What is that supposed to mean?" I begin walking again, because the others are catching up. I definitely don't want this turning into a crew meeting.

Mom stays in stride with me. "It means you try to understand Madge's side, making allowances for her differences. Maybe she doesn't understand the lengths we've had to go to in order to survive, but that doesn't make her a bad person. And she has her share of good qualities. Generosity, for example, and courage."

I sneer. "Generosity?" Derisive laughter escapes my lips. "I think we're the ones being generous here. What has Madge ever done for us – or better yet – what does she have to offer now? Nothing. Just one more mouth to feed."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt you to help make her feel at home with us. She hasn't got anyone else, has she?" With that, Mom's mouth draws into a thin line. This is the only indication that she is in a rage. She doesn't shout or rant or stomp around or hit like other parents might. But it doesn't matter. That drawn expression screams displeasure. And disappointment. But what have I done? I didn't say anything that wasn't true, as far as I see it.

"So what do you want from me?" I ask.

"Make amends," Mom tells me. "And include her, if you feel she needs to pick up some of the weight. She can help."

"Right."

Mom puts her hand on my arm, stopping me. "Gale, when your dad died, you pushed on. I couldn't have held the family together without you. Madge's parents are dead. And she's pushing on. As far as I can see, you've got something in common."

…

_Madge's POV_

We stop for the night. Thank goodness. Although we're mostly out in the open now, the creek we're camping next to has a thick growth of trees along it, providing some cover.

What an awful day. I don't think I've ever squabbled with someone so much in my life. Ever since this morning Gale's been picking on everything I say or do. Or don't do. I'm never quick enough, tough enough, _human_ enough, I think sometimes. I've been seconds away from screaming at him to back off.

But then he did. Hazelle must have said something, because after they ran ahead of the rest of us this afternoon, Gale's looked kind of lost. And quiet. Eerie quiet. Not the surly, above-it-all kind of silence that I've come to expect of him.

Thank goodness his family isn't quite so stuffy. Posy, for example. After the initial slap on the forehead, which must be from having three older brothers bulldozing her all the time, we've gotten on quite well. I've never considered myself to be good with little kids, since I'm an only child and don't really know any kids. But we've been nigh on inseparable. And then there's Prim, of course. She and Mrs. Everdeen have been very quiet, especially compared to the constant chatter of Vick, Rory, and their friend Bristel. And although they can be rowdy, they've always been friendly to me.

Then there's Hazelle. I don't know what to do with her.

…

_Now that my errand of mercy is done, the stillness of my house feels uncomfortable and I'm not sure what to do with myself. Go to bed? Everything feels so surreal and a wisp of doubt grows in my mind. Have I done the wisest thing? What will happen next? I wish Mr. Abernathy had a phone…although, he's probably still with the Everdeens and Gale. Besides, one never knows who else might be listening._

_My chin is resting on my chest when there is a knock at the kitchen door. Startled, my eyes flutter open and I nearly fall out of my seat. The kettle begins to whistle, as well, and I feel disoriented._

_Another insistent knock._

_Apparently I am not the only fool in the district running about tonight. And then I pause…who would come here at this hour? And why? As panic surges in my stomach, I bite down on my lip. First things first – I remove the kettle from the heat. __Be reasonable__, I think to myself. I haven't actually done anything illegal…well, not that Thread would know about yet, anyway. If someone official, say a Peacekeeper, wanted admittance to this house, then he would probably come to the front door and not the back. And he probably wouldn't knock twice before showing himself in._

_I feel a bit better then, about slipping back the lock and opening the door. Cold air rushes in and the candles flicker. A tall, middle-aged woman with coal black hair stands on the stoop. Snow is caked in her hair and her clothes are worn and wet. She looks familiar, something about the mouth and eyes._

"_Madge Undersee?" she asks. There's a note of surprise in her voice. _

"_Yes?" I reply._

"_I just came from the Everdeens when I saw your light on…and…" she hesitates, "I'm Hazelle Hawthorne. May I come in?"_

_Oh…boy. _

_She stares at me expectantly, so take a step backward and gesture for her to come in. Still, I gape while she wipes off her boots on the mat. _

"_What a lovely kitchen," she says conversationally, rubbing warmth back into her bare hands. _

_Think, Madge, think. She's only his mother. _

"_Uh, thank you. Would you like some tea? I just ..." I catch Mrs. Hawthorne giving me a penetrating look, her mouth forming itself into a question… "boiled some water." _

"_It's late…." She continues to study me, standing of to the side of the room, and I think she's about to refuse, when the confused expression on her face turns to one of understanding. "But, I think maybe I will have some tea, yes. Thank you." _

_I gesture for her to take a seat at the table while I scoop several heaping teaspoons of loose Earl Grey into a filter and pour the water into my favorite yellow rosebud pot. It's a bit chipped, but that just lends it character. It belonged to my grandmother Undersee. Bergamot scented steam curls up through the spout, and I figure it's not too late for more snacking. _

_I turn back to Mrs. Hawthorne with a tin of shortbread in my hands. "Do you like…" I stop, because she's still staring at me, and close observation tends to make me squirm. "Um." _

"_Forgive me for staring, but I didn't realize you were…I don't really get to town much…I thought you were…"_

"_What?" I ask nervously, backing up into the counter, afraid to hear what she thinks about me. _

"_Well…" and she looks a little sheepish. "I thought you were a little girl. Closer to Prim's age."_

_I blink. "Oh." Then my nose wrinkles. "Oh?" What does she mean by little girl? And that I'm not one? _

_She smiles a little. "That's silly of me, of course. I suppose part of it comes from not really accepting that my children are growing up, or that Gale's friends are growing into women." _

"_I'm friends with Katniss," I instantly reply, and then blush deeply. With my fair coloring, I know it shows like a beacon. I put the biscuit tin down in front of her and then rummage for mugs. I pull out one that has the District 12 logo of a canary and a headlamp, an election gift from Old Cray to my dad years ago. Nice. I put it back deciding it isn't in good taste, and pull out two yellow ceramic tea cups. _

"_Oh. Friends with Katniss," she replies absentmindedly, helping herself to the shortbread. "But then why…? You did bring the painkillers for my son?"_

_With my back to her, I reply, "Well, yes." _

"_I see." But she doesn't sound like she does. _

_I bring the tea over and mugs, pouring her a generous amount. _

"_Thank you," she says, accepting the cup. "Feels good on my hands." I look at them, chapped and cracked. Red from the cold. I know that she's a washerwoman who works out of her home. Once, about four years ago, Gale came to our back door asking if we had any laundry that needed washing. It's the first time I remember seeing him. I eavesdropped in the pantry and overheard the conversation. Our housekeeper, Hanna, does most of our cleaning, so she sent him away empty handed. I remember he just looked stiff and, I don't know, empty, as she closed the door on him. Lots of kids have that look at school, so why did it stand out to me? I suppose because in that moment I knew our family could have done something to help him, but we didn't. _

"_They're not very pretty, are they?" she says about her hands. _

_I snap out of my reverie. "Sorry. I shouldn't be staring." _

_She smiles at me, and it makes her whole face warm and friendly. Mrs. Hawthorne is a lot more smiley than her son, that's for certain. She takes a sip of her tea. "Mmm. We usually only drink herbal tea at home. This is quite nice." _

"_Mrs. Hawthorne?" The suspense is starting to kill me. _

_She smiles again, and the skin around her eyes crinkles. "You can call me Hazelle. Everyone does." _

_My dad raised me to call adults by their last names unless they give me permission. Sometimes it sticks, though. Haymitch still gets cross with me when I call him Mr. Abernathy. _

"_Hazelle, um, is there's something you needed from me tonight?"_

_She puts her mug down. "I just noticed that your light…"_

"_You kind of came out of your way to notice that my light was on." _

_Hazelle laughs at me. "You're right. I did come out of my way with a purpose. I should've gotten back to my family, but…" She wraps her hands around the still-steaming mug and leans toward me, her face very grave now. "I overheard Katniss and the others talking about the painkiller while I sat with Gale. They said you brought it for my son." _

_I swallow air, then take a mouthful of tea so that I can hide behind my mug. _

"_That is true, isn't it?" she's asking gently. _

"_I brought it," I murmur. "But it's my mom who gave it to him, really. It's hers." _

_Hazelle's eyes flicker toward the hallway, then back to me. They look watery. "I don't suppose…"_

"_No. She's not feeling well," I say. _

"_I see. Well. Then you'll have to convey my thanks. I…I can't tell you what it means to us. Gale is…was…in so much pain. And nothing helped." Hazelle covers her mouth with her hand for a moment. "He kept passing out only to wake up again in pain."_

_I think she really is crying, or very near to it. I'm not sure what to do, so I just sit there stupidly. _

_Hazelle takes a deep breath, collecting herself. "I wanted to come by and thank you for bringing the morphling. He never mentions any other friends but Katniss." My heart crunches a little. Of course he doesn't. To Gale, there is only Katniss. "I guess what I'm saying is, I don't know why you helped us. Your family isn't obligated to us in any way, but I'm so grateful that you did. And I don't know how I'll be able to repay you for the medicine. But I can try. Sometime I have extra from the laundry I take in…"_

_Something in me snaps. Do the Hawthornes really think, in their pride, that they can afford a box of morphling? And what sort of people do they think the Undersees are, that we'd take money from a family that doesn't have any, when we have so much? "My mother gave him the morphling, Mrs…Hazelle." I say as earnestly as I can, "and she didn't mention anything about repayment. Don't even think it. The medicine is a gift from her." _

_Hazelle blinks at me. "But why? Madge, we don't live in a world that gives gifts. And I think I know my son well enough to say that he will want to pay back as much of the cost of the morphling as he can." _

_I'll bet. "Does Gale know?" _

_She hesitates. "No. He kept slipping in and out of consciousness at the time, and probably didn't even know I held his hand." _

"_Okay then, don't tell him." _

"_Madge," she gasps. _

_I hold up a hand, asking her to wait a minute. "How will Gale be able to pay for the morphling, Hazelle? Who knows when he'll be able to get back to the mines," I reason, even though she's more than aware of the pinch her family will be in for the weeks to come. I smile, though. "And no amount of free strawberries will make up for the cost. Don't worry. It's already taken care of." _

"_What do you mean it's taken care of?" she frowns. _

_Now I hesitate. I don't want Gale to know I brought the morphling, because I don't want him beholden to me. The idea makes my skin crawl. I also don't want to reveal to Hazelle my personal reasons for delivering the morphling. But it might be the only way to make her accept that she isn't going to repay my family for this. _

_I study my fingers. "Um, I owed him. He helped me once, and so this pretty much clears my debt to him. My mom doesn't know that, but it doesn't really matter." _

_Hazelle sits back in her chair. "He helped you?"_

"_Yes." _

"_In what way?"_

_I blush. "It doesn't really matter." _

"_It must matter if it's equal to six vials of morphling," she says gravely.  
_

"_Well," I mumble. "It does to me, but it's private." _

Hazelle lifts an inquisitive brow. "_And if he hadn't helped you?"_

"_No amount of morphling would have made it better." _

_She relents. "I see. Sort of."_

"_So, we're even." _

_She nods. "The two of you are even." _

_While my slow, exhausted brain tries to figure out the hidden qualification, I press on, "and you won't mention this to Gale, right?"_

"_Don't you think he'd want to know that you helped him?" Hazelle asks, both eyebrows raised. _

_I wrinkle my nose. "Not really. _

_Hazelle purses her lips, like she's thinking. And the way she's looking at me feels like I'm a puzzle she's putting together. _

"_Maybe he'll just think the Everdeens had it?" I continue, to fill the silence. _

"_Maybe." She chuckles a little. "Truth to tell, he's not very imaginative when it comes to this sort of thing. So, yes, he'll probably assume the Everdeens had it. Unless someone else mentions it." _

"_You won't—"_

"_I won't." _

"_Thank you." _

"_Well, my children are probably frantic, so I should go." Hazelle swallows the last of her tea and gets up. "Thank you, for the tea and for the medicine. If there's ever anything that you or your mother need, just ask."_

"_All right," I reply, although I can't imagine when I'll need to take her up on it. _

…

She's kept up her side of our agreement, I see. And I'm grateful, no matter how little good it's done. The confusing alliances are still there. And any hope of Gale growing partial toward me without feeling obligated withers in the sun. And that's the point of all the secrecy, isn't it? So that he could be my friend without coercion. But now I know that everything he's done for me, and everything he continues to do, as per Hazelle's instruction, is out of coercion.

The trouble is that I _like _Hazelle. But who am I to her but the girl who dragged herself through the snow to deliver a box of painkiller? What kind of basis for a friendship is that?

Yet without it, would I have burned with my parents?

My thoughts are interrupted when Gale pushes past me with an armful of kindling. He and Bristel argue about the best way to light a wood fire.

Meanwhile, Hazelle takes handfuls of a flour mixture she put together using ingredients they took from home and plops them on top of a pot filled with meat, tubers, and fresh herbs Gale brought in.

"Possum pot pie?" I ask, hunkering down next to Hazelle and Mrs. E.

Hazelle grins. "Very tasty."

"You know, I don't think my family's ever eaten possum."

"I never could get used to their tails. So much like a rat's tail." Mrs. E shudders.

"Only bigger." I understand what she means perfectly. But Hazelle seems amused by our reticence.

Gale gets the fire going and I decide it's time to woman up and try to carry my own weight.

Standing up, I say "Gale, is there something I cou—"

"Here," he shoves another pot into my hands without waiting for me to finish. "Earn your keep."

The pot drops to the ground.

Before I can stop, my hand strikes out, connecting with his cheek. Hard.

I recoil away from him, shocked. Everyone stares.

Gale looks down at me, first with surprise and then unmasked fury. "What the hell was that for?" he growls.

I stammer. "I-I'm sorry…I didn't mean…it's a reflex." I cringe away, waiting for him to hit back or yell or both.

Instead, Gale rubs his red cheek and picks up the pot. His anger dissipates as suddenly as it arrived. "I'll get the water, then."

"No, I will," I say, taking it away from him. "Just don't say that again."

"What?"

"You know…about earning my keep," I mumble the last bit. "I don't…like it."

He looks confused. "Okay…sorry, didn't mean to offend you," he says carefully, like a monster might split through my skull, or something.

As I walk to the stream, I feel like his eyes are burning holes in the back of my head.

…

I stand on the bank holding the pot in one hand and a large stick from the thicket in the other. Staring at the water flowing by in long, swirling patterns, my body buzzes with tension.

The first time I felt triggered like this, I thought the man touching my throat was Liquor having finally caught up with me. About to kill me like he promised he would. The second, Gale quoting him nearly verbatim. Ugh. Those memories pound into the back of my eyes against my will until I feel like I'm going to vomit. The pot and stick fall to the ground. My fists clench and unclench. They're clammy. I need to sit down.

Except someone's watching me.

I turn. It's Gale. Déjà vu.

He steps out from the shadow of a tree. "You okay?" he asks softly. I'm thrown by it. Surely, he's never used that tone with me. Especially not today.

"Yeah," I say woodenly. "I'm sorry about hitting you."

He gives me a hard look. "So what happened to make you lash out like that?"

"Maybe you just annoyed me," I reply churlishly. I don't mean to be childish, but his question is getting into things I don't wish to discuss with him, like the context behind my request that he never use that phrase again. A tendril of shame uncoils in my belly, making me want to curl up.

"I might believe that, but you're usually a pretty self-contained individual, soft spoken." Gale continues to step closer to me as he speaks until he's also standing on the edge of the stream. One of the low-hanging branches of a maple dusts the top of his hair. "Seems out of character, I guess, for you to be so high strung and _violent_."

Hmph. Violent. "I don't think you know me well enough to make that kind of judgment," I say. He just arches a heavy, black eyebrow and waits. "A lot has happened, Gale. You want me to pick something?"

"Madge—"

Exasperation colors my voice. "That's the truth: a lot has happened, and I don't really know what to do with it all. I'm grateful that your family took me under its wing, but I don't know _you_ well enough to confide in you. And I don't think you like _me_ well enough to care."

He's quiet for a moment, arms folded over his chest, then says, "So, that's it then?"

I nod.

"What's that for?" He points to my stick. "Walking?"

"A weapon. Sort of. For hunting with," I mutter with some embarrassment, waiting for him to mock my efforts like he has been all day. I bend to pick it up, but he's already done it, grabbing the stick and the pot.

Gale hands it back to me. "Oh?" His voice is curious, not derisive.

"Something I learned recently, so that I can help earn my keep." I shudder involuntarily. "As you say."

"Madge…"

I hold up my free hand. "You're right. If we're going to be out here for a while, then I should be able to help."

"All right." I expected Gale to say something condescending or dissuasive. Instead, he just accepts it. Wow. What am I missing?

We stare at each other silently for a moment or two. The only sounds come from the water, the birds, insects. The muffled noise from the camp. Then I get the nerve to ask him something that's been troubling me since last night.

"Gale?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there anything out there at all? Towns or settlements of people who aren't in a district?" I wave my hand around at the world at large. "Do you think we're going to wander around like this for the rest of our lives?"

With the vessel tucked under his arm, he starts rolling up his trousers so that he can walk into the stream where the water is clearer and cleaner. "I hope not."

"So, where are we going?"

He pauses for a bit while he takes off his boots. "District 13."

Is he _nuts_? "There isn't a District 13," I say slowly, as if to a child. "The Capitol wiped it out. Completely. They show the footage all the time." Why am I explaining this? He's watched the vids.

Gale gives me a look of long suffering, the look a shepherd might give when talking about the stupidity of his sheep. "There might be. We're hoping that somebody found a way to survive." He wades out into the water.

"_Might_ _be_ is kind of a flimsy tip to follow," I point out charitably. Walking into a nuclear wasteland is not my idea of survival.

He shrugs. "Katniss…she ran into some women in the woods who escaped from Eight a little bit before the Quarter Quell announcement. They were heading that way just after some factory explosions or something."

_Factory explosions_. Disruptions in District 8 during the Victory Tour…I found that out in the newspapers…my mind reels. Katniss _met_ someone involved in it…meaning I guessed right, my hunch. "But how would…did anyone else know?

He shrugs again. "She probably told Haymitch and her _friend_."

Haymitch? My body actually twitches. "Haymitch knew about Thirteen? About the _possibility_ of Thirteen?" This last piece of information is too much. I back away from the water, pacing around in circles, trying to make sense of this latest piece of news until I'm staggering on the uneven ground.

"Madge?" Gale asks, unnerved by my reaction.

Haymitch didn't say anything to me…and I'm so _angry_ that I start bawling. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"Haymitch?" Gale's face contorts with confusion and alarm. "Why would he talk to you?"

"He should have," I snarl through my tears. I've been running and starving and surviving that I haven't had time to feel so _betrayed_. But now I do. "He should have said."

"Why would he? Haymitch hates everyone. He wouldn't bother helping any of us."

I'm so angry that my filters aren't up. "Because he must have known about the uprisings in the other districts, and the possibility of firebombing, and about Thirteen. There's a whole damn _network_ for that sort of thing! We _all_ could have escaped – my parents – and _had somewhere to go_. Not gotten led around and around in circles by sick—" I snap my mouth shut, closing my eyes against the emotions exploding in my gut like the incendiaries that crushed our home.

But Gale stopped listening at one word. "Network?" he asks. I don't answer. "What are you talking about?"

The network. The lines of information that I have contributed to for almost two years. Feeding Haymitch clips from newspapers. You'd think that would have earned me some loyalty, or the right to information. Some information that would have secured my family's safety. But in return he didn't tell me _anything_.

But I don't say that.

Instead, I collapse onto my knees as though all the bones holding me up are broken. "He should have told me."

Gale's eyes hone in on me. "Are you saying there's a rebel network? How do you know?"

This sobers me up. "Uh...I'm sure there's one, you know, with all the unrest. Like the first rebellion."

"And naturally Haymitch Abernathy, the district drunk who head-dives off of stages, would be involved," Gale sneers.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" I ask defensively. "He's always going to the Capitol, has access to loads of information that we don't."

"Huh," he grunts, coming out of the creek. He sets the water down, then crouches next to me. I have to crane my neck back to look at his face, though, because he's that much taller than me. His eyes search mine for something. I don't know what, but it's hard to maintain contact. "So this rebel network, that's just some story you've fabricated in your head to idle away the hours? And you just happened to pick Haymitch Abernathy to be your unlikely hero."

"Um…"

"Which is interesting," he goes on to say, "because you're the only person to mention that the bombing had anything to do with a rebellion. And until now, I thought Katniss was the only one who knew about uprisings in the other districts."

"Um…well…"

"Madge, don't lie." There's something about the set of his face that convinces me it would be foolish to try - and when I say foolish, I mean detrimental. "What do you know?"

* * *

_TBC – following a short break_

**AN**: I'm going out on a limb here, because we aren't told that Katniss said anything to Gale about the women from Eight. And she has some good reasons for not telling Gale – wolfshead that he is. However, the book also doesn't say that she _didn't_ tell him, so…I guess the canon here is fair game, and in this version I need for Gale to know.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Madge's POV_

"Gale?"

Somewhere, a thrush answers with a soft _swee swee_, but Gale does not reply.

"Would it help if you put your head between your knees?" Gale turns his head in his hands just long enough to shoot me a glare from beneath his ominous eyebrows. He's been sitting by the side of creek with his elbows propped up on his knees, digesting everything I've just told him about Haymitch, and my dad's newspapers, and the districts. "Never mind…" I'm standing beside him, wondering if I should take the water back to camp and leave him here. Odd how I'm the calm one now. Actually, I feel kind of light. I hadn't realized what a burden that particular secret was.

Gale holds his hand up. "So…this whole time you've been aiding the rebellion," he says with slow precision. "Spying –"

"Oh, that word." I cringe. "I wouldn't call myself a spy. And it's not a big deal. I only worked with Haymitch…and one other." My stomach turns painfully, remembering. "But Haymitch never told me about anything important. I just read newspapers. It's nothing compared—"

"It's _something_," Gale cries with a sweep of the same hand. "More than belly-aching in the woods or the mines."

Feeling impatient with his attempt to give weight to what I've done, my hands fly to my hips. "It was safe, Gale. Haymitch and the others did all the real work. When he approached me, he only needed someone to help him keep an eye on the climate in the Capitol."

Gale's face twists in concentration. "How did Haymitch know that he could trust you?" _And how could you possibly trust a disgusting drunk like him?_ the expression on his face seems to say.

"It's his business to know." I pull my arms up in an embrace around my ribcage. "Actually, he told me things about my family that I hadn't heard before. See, the Donners had ties to the first rebellion. That pin I gave Katniss of the mockingjay, it belonged to my aunt, but it's been in the family for years. It was part of a uniform or something."

I half-laugh and half-choke at the wide-eyed expression on Gale's face, like I'm somehow shattering his worldview – or maybe just his preconceptions. I hate to disillusion the dear boy, but it's kind of funny.

His skin between his eyebrows crinkles as he looks at me. "This is going to sound stupid, but I have no idea who you are."

I let loose a huge, unladylike snort. "I'm not surprised, Gale. You've always seemed happy to keep people like me in a box."

"What do you mean?"

"You know," I say, sitting down next to him. "Daughter of an official and a merchant woman. Pretty dresses. Don't need to worry about dinner or tesserae. Right? Reliable buyer of strawberries, nothing more."

Gale looks a little sheepish, which is an expression I've never seen on him. "I guess you're right."

"Katniss saw past the mayor thing, and the money. I miss that about her," I murmur, looking across the river instead of at him. A note of some of the loneliness I've felt seeps into my voice. "But you never could see beyond it."

Gale sits quietly for a moment, throwing pebbles into the water one by one. "Guess the joke's on me," he finally says.

Not really sure how to respond, I stand up and dust myself off. "Well, anyway, I feel better now."

His eyebrows contract as he looks up. "You do?"

"Sure." I shrug. "Now that the pressure of that particular secret is gone, I can relax a little."

"Relax?" His voice rises a notch. "Madge, do you realize what you've been saying? If there's a rebel network – and if the rumors of Thirteen are true – then the whole time we've been wandering around in the wilderness, there's been a rebellion going and we're missing it! We can't relax." There's a light in his eyes. I wonder how thin the line is between enthusiasm and lunacy.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, Gale," I reply gravely. "Rebellions are violent. Remember the whole point of the Hunger Games? The Treaty of Treason?" One of my earliest memories of my father is watching him recite that speech; not something I'm likely to forget. "Even if the Capitol twisted it into an excuse to enact more violence, they did have something right. People die in rebellions."

Gale looks confused and a little scornful. "I thought you'd be eager to get back to aiding the cause."

I give him a hard look. "I hate the Capitol, Gale. You don't have to doubt that. They took my family. My aunt died in the Games, and my best friend too…but I'll be honest. The rebellion scares me. What if it fails again? And what if more people I care about get killed –"

"But your family is –"

Dead. Right. "So who have I got left to lose?" I ask sharply. "Is that what you were going to imply?"

He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

I change the subject before I say something I regret. The truth is that I hate the idea of Gale involving himself in the rebellion – and I feel less eager to reach District 13 because of that. How could I possibly tell him? "We should probably go back. Everyone will wonder what happened to the water."

"Wait," Gale says, reaching out for my arm. I stop and now he has trouble looking me in the eye. He clears his throat. "It has been brought to my attention," he swallows, "that I've been…picking on you. So, I guess I should apologize…"

I can't help it. Laughter bubbles up from inside of me and nearly double over.

Gale glowers, letting go of my arm. "_What_?"

"Your f-face," I giggle. "It looks like you've eaten worms."

He glowers more.

I try to sober up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh at you when you're trying to apologize. Please continue."

Gale smoothes the glare out of his features, and starts over. "I'm sorry for grousing at you all the time, and for misjudging you. Now, before I make a greater ass of myself, is there anything else I should know?"

I expel a breath. Anything else? Yes.

"No."

…

We are ignored by the boys when we return from the creek, but Hazelle gives us an appraising glance. Fortunately, Posy seizes my hand, wanting to do my hair before dinner, so nobody asks what took so long. When she's finished beautifying me blades of long grass stick out of my braid every which way. With Vick's help, I make up a game of who can pull the most grass back out. Vick wins. My fingers pull the tie holding the braid in. Golden hair falls around my shoulders, and I feel a little more familiar with myself than I did a moment ago. I always wore my hair down back home, enjoying the unrestricted feel of it on my back. Posy watches, completely enamored, and I can't help laughing as she twists and untwists a wavy strand around her tiny finger.

In the meantime, Gale pulls Bristel aside, but I cannot hear what's being said. Judging by the gleam in Bristel's eye, I'm guessing it has to do with the news I've shared. A shiver of apprehension runs down my spine. It's one thing to offer intelligence. But these two young men, they're interested in offering – no - risking something a little more physical and permanent.

I try to forget the unease I feel by tucking whole-heartedly into the possum and dumpling concoction that Hazelle put together. Is it just me or does food taste better outdoors? All matter of pine aside, which I don't really consider to be a food, I haven't eaten anything I haven't liked. And this is the closest I've come to bread in _days_. I spend the remainder of the meal dreaming of crusty white loaves and butter. And cold milk. I really miss milk.

And strawberries. I love those. We should find some…

But while I'm mentally drooling, Prim hardly eats anything and it's soon apparent that she isn't well. A fever. Maybe from the cool, wet weather the past few days. Mrs. Everdeen doubts Prim will be able to put in a full day's walk, which means tomorrow will be another rest day. Gale worries, though, that more time spent in the outdoors will increase our risk of more sickness or injury. He speaks softly to Mrs. Everdeen and Prim, concern threading through his voice. Not the gruff tone he adopted with me this morning when I failed to keep pace. What else should I expect? Prim is special to Gale. He probably even loves her like she was his own sister.

With that thought comes longing, jackknifing my heart. I'm familiar with loneliness, but I've always had someone to belong to. But nobody here really has a stake in my existence or my problems. I wonder if Bristel ever feels that way, too? We haven't spoken much, but I know he's also alone. Judging by the contented expression on his face while he shows Vick and Rory how to make whistles out of a blade of grass, I doubt it.

When Gale moves, I get up to sit next to Prim, and start running my fingers through her hair before I even realize what I'm doing. But she doesn't seem to mind, so I continue until I hear her sigh. "How are you feeling?" I ask.

Prim opens her eyes, sorrow underscoring her delicate face. "Katniss use to play with my hair like that when I felt sick."

The muscle in my cheek trembles involuntarily when I imagine Katniss tenderly caring for her sister. And I realize that I'm not the only person missing loved ones right now. Swallowing the last of my self-pity, I tell Prim a story about trying to teach Katniss to play the piano. Katniss, who excels so greatly at some things, and fails so utterly in others. I never could get her to remember the keys. Or play without it sounding like a funeral dirge. The anecdote makes Prim laugh a little, and I continue to play with her hair until her eyes grow heavy.

After Prim falls asleep, I rejoin the group sitting around the fire.

Rory lends me one of the knives I've seen strapped to his pack when I ask for one. Silently and clumsily, I sharpen the thicker end of the stick I brought from the creek. The knife is sharp, but it catches once in a while, and a blister starts to form on my thumb and index finger. Then something popping in the fire makes me jump and knick my finger with the blade, which I drop instantly. A thin line of blood rises to the skin's surface and I instinctively shove my finger into my mouth. Ow. Once I realize what I'm doing, I pull the finger out back out and look up self-consciously to find Gale watching me, his black eyebrow arched.

"What?" I ask defensively.

"Still up for playing wilderness survival?" He asks with wry superiority, gesturing toward my half-finished spear.

I reach for the fallen knife. "Gale?"

"What?" His eyes narrow.

Gripping the cool handle in my right hand, I slowly scrape the steel edge of the knife over the wood. A thin shaving curls and falls to the ground. "Shut up."

His eyes glint, but with amusement and silent laughter. I think. Either way, he leaves me alone when I shove the finished spear into the cooler coals on the outside of the fire pit. As long as the wood doesn't burn, the heat causes the wood to harden. Or so I learned from the two strangers that one night. But unlike their three-pronged model, mine only has one thick point.

If we're going to stick around, then I'm going fishing.

…

The next morning we eat a quick breakfast under a perfectly clear blue sky. Without the shade of the forest, and shadows of the foothills, it's already a warm day. Gale takes Bristel and Rory to set up snares on some of the game trails he remembers passing yesterday. They return around noon, sweaty and hungry. They'll check them again before nightfall.

After lunch, Vick and Posy beg Gale to go swimming downstream where the creek is wider. Shady trees grow thick around the bank, but the sun shines warmly on the water. After I've helped clean up around the camp and had a cup of tea with poor Prim, I join the others, bringing my spear along.

When I find the trail they followed through the scrub, I see Bristel hasn't braved the creek. The kids, and even Gale, are in the water. He's up to his waist in it. Although I've seen him without his shirt on, which he takes off at night, this is the first time I've seen him without bandages on his ribs. The dressings on his right arm remain in place, though. With his left, Gale gives Vick a swimming lesson. The younger boy holds onto the good arm and practices kicking while Gale tows him around. I stand with my feet in the water, just watching. In the sunlight, the scars on Gale's back stand out like white lightning across his back. Some places still look puckered and pink where his skin pulls the most, making it take longer to heal.

"I wouldn't go in the water with those on, if I were you," Bristel says, breaking into my thoughts. He's perching on a large, exposed tree root, lazily eyeing my trousers.

"How else would I go in?" I ask, puzzled.

Three shirts and three pairs of trousers hang from nearby branches. In the shallow water near the bank, Posy swims around in nothing but her little underwear. But she's five. I can wear Rory's shirt, but Bristel's right. I don't want to get Rory's pants wet, since they're all I've got. And wet trousers are so uncomfortable. But his shirt doesn't reach down more than mid-thigh…I don't know.

"Don't look," I tell him.

Bristel grins, but obediently looks away. It's funny how different people can be. When Bristel smiles, it's like the teasing expression of an older brother. When Liquor smiled at me, I felt like a sheep that the big, ravenous wolf wanted for dinner.

After stepping back out of the water and propping the spear against a tree, I shuck off the pants and fold them neatly, laying them aside.

Then my stomach bottoms out – the stupid rash! My legs look like they belong on a ghoul. How quickly my thoughts turn from modesty to vanity. Ha! At this point, showing _any_ leg is too much.

"Safe?" Bristel asks, hearing the break of the water as I step back into the creek.

I tug on the hem of the shirt. "I hope so," I sigh, thinking that my legs look a lot longer than they normally do. Right now I wish they were non-existent.

"Nice," he says, waggling his eyebrows at me.

"Ugh," I groan halfheartedly and jerk at the hem again. He's just teasing me, so I look back over my shoulder and stick out my tongue.

I leave him laughing on the shore.

The water is surprisingly cold, especially compared to the hot afternoon. Slowly I wade out, to the edge of the tree shade. My bare legs leave me feeling exposed, but when I glance around, the Hawthorne boys aren't even looking. So I keep going until I'm up to my knees in water. The current feels stronger than I thought it would and for a moment I stand there, wide-eyed and frightened.

"Please, Madge, please swim with me." Posy's little body appears next to mine, bobbing in the shallows like a little mermaid. I reach down and smooth the long, wet hair off of her face.

"I don't know how to swim, Posy," I say, trying not to sound as nervous as I suddenly feel.

"Gale will show you. It's fun," she begs.

Posy. Bless her. I look up at Gale and his heavy, black eyebrow quirks up in a challenge.

I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"I haven't let anyone drown yet," he says, crossing his arms over his glistening, bruised chest.

"Yet," Rory repeats with a smirk. Although, I notice he's not ventured out much deeper than I have.

"I won't let you drown," Vick calls. "Promise." Then his cheeks turn red and Rory uses both arms to send a wall of water crashing into his face. Soon the fight extends to Gale, who receives a face full of water and emerges from the shower with a fierce, predatory grin sharpening the planes of his face. I am glad that I'm not the target, that's for certain. And his brothers wish they weren't, judging by the way they skedaddle to get out of his reach. But one by one, he gets them and Rory and Vick are subjected to a series of dunkings that can't be good for Gale's arm and torso. He's certainly going to feel it later.

Time to move on, I think, before I get caught up in the water fight. While they're splashing around in the shallows, I return to the streamside to retrieve the spear, then pad upstream a little ways with the hopes of trying it out. I find a place where the bank bows into a little alcove. The sides of the tiny inlet shield this part of the creek from the full strength of the current. I wade in till the water hits mid-calf, which is as deep as I'm comfortable with. A school of tiny, silver darters swim hastily away, then slowly drift back when I still. The stream is cool and beautifully clear with a pebbly bottom. I have to be careful though, with the sun reflecting off the surface, because staring at it for too long gives me a headache. I pose like Water with my shadow out of the way of my line of sight. Then I submerge the tip of the spear just below the water. The shaft looks oddly cut away, refracted by the water, but it allows me to better gauge where to thrust the spear when a fish happens by. Hopefully.

And then I wait.

For a while.

And wonder what Liquor and Water knew about spearing fish that I don't, because nothing comes. Maybe they had some kind of fish cologne on their feet? Like some hunters I've heard about, who spray themselves with urine. Or maybe they knew where fish were likely to gather…or a better time of day?

Do fish come out in the afternoon?

Do river fish have teeth?

With this disquieting thought, I decide to give it up as a bad job. My back and shoulders ache from the squatting posture I've adopted, not to mention that all feeling has fled from my freezing feet. But just as I straighten, something blue-gold darts past my legs. I freeze.

And am rewarded as the fish returns, swimming hesitantly around my legs. Then there are more. I watch, anxiously trying to figure out when I should strike. One of them approaches my foot and my breath catches in my throat. I guess I'll find out if they have teeth. It darts forward and I feel a little pinch on my big toe, not painful, but a little surprising. Another comes and does the same thing to my other foot. They lose interest after a few nibbles and start picking at pebbles.

I'm sweating down my back a little, mostly from indecision than from anything worth sweating over. Then I strike with my spear and send them all darting safely away, splashing river water all over the front of Rory's shirt for nothing.

I hiss a curse under my breath.

It's another ten minutes, I guess, before they approach again. I'm aching and frustrated now, wondering what I'm trying to prove, anyhow. It's not like the Hawthornes haven't got the food portion of this shindig covered.

And so it's with a rather half-hearted stab that I actually, accidentally skewer one of the little buggers. I feel the spear…_spear_…through the flesh and hit the rocky river bottom. I freeze, wide-eyed, afraid to move in case I lose my catch. I can see the multicolored fish stuck by the wood, and I don't know if it's the water playing tricks with me or if the fish is still alive and wriggling a little. I hope it's the former. Then gently, I lift the spear up and out of the water so that the point stands perpendicular to my torso. The fish isn't moving.

I shimmy my hands halfway up the spear to get a closer look at my catch. The fish is covered in green, blue, and metallic scales. Nasty looking spines ridge the top and bottom fins (I remember a tribute from District 4 giving a lecture about the anatomy of a fish to a tribute from District 2 once, but I don't remember the words he used because the District 2 boy decided to kill him right there out of boredom). He's only about as big as my flat palm and fingers, nothing compared to the trout the strangers brought in, but I can't help smiling in triumph, despite the way it's eyeballing me.

"Nice work."

My whole body jumps and I drop the spear and have to lunge for it, resulting in a light soaking. I let out a long breath when I straighten up. That velvet tread will be the death of me one of these days.

"You startled me," I grouse, turning around.

Gale stands on the bank, two or three yards downstream. I catch him glancing at my legs that are now streaming with water. He's wearing nothing but his trousers. The waistband hangs just below the indentation of his hip bones. We both look away, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck.

"Sorry," he says, referring to the scare I received. He rolls up the hems of his trousers, then wades in next to me and takes the spear. "Bluegill," he says for my benefit.

"I have no idea what it is. It's my first catch." I nervously tuck a strand of stray hair behind my ear. "Can we eat it?"

Gale purses his lips. "There's not a lot of fish you can't eat in these streams. These little guys are pretty tasty, but not a lot of meat. Katniss and I used them as bait for larger fish, usually."

"Oh," I say, deflated.

Gale glances at my face. "Spear's not a bad idea," he says, probably trying to be nice. Which is a new thing, but I could get used to it. "You'll have to show me how you used it."

I nod and he hands the weapon back to me. "What should I do with it?" I ask, meaning the fish.

He shrugs. "Like I said, they taste pretty good, even if they are small. We can cook it up later, show the others your first fish. Best not to waste anything we catch."

"Sure."

"Are you going to keep fishing?" he asks.

I look up at the sky. The afternoon is waning and my body hurts. I start to stretch before I remember the precarious length of Rory's shirt, and that Gale is right here watching me. "I think I've had enough for one day. What were you doing?"

"Oh, I was still helping the kids with their swimming. I taught them a couple days ago. They're downstream still, and I noticed that you disappeared. Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

I start. _You_ _did_? But I say, "I didn't even think to tell anyone where I was going. Sorry. I'm not really used to…doing that."

He shrugs. "S'okay. Just don't wander too far." He turns back and wades to the shore. "Are you coming back now?"

Looking around, I see the shadows are longer. In the bright sunlight, it's one thing, but I don't really like the idea of being out here by myself for too long. So, I nod and follow.

As we walk back I allow myself another glance at Gale's torso, and the cuts and bruises there. I never got his side of what happened after the fence.

"Where did the bruises come from?" I ask.

Gale looks down on himself for a moment, then says, "Tree fell on me."

"What!" I gasp, stopping in my tracks.

His grey eyes lock with mine, and there's a question in them. "Only half."

"_Half _a tree is plenty, Gale. Is that why you—" I begin to ask if that's why he didn't find me, because he'd been injured. But no, that was never the reason. He already told me the answer back in District 12.

"_I'll carry you to the fence. After that, you can do whatever you want."_

_I sigh. "I don't know why you bother."_

"_I don't either. All I know is that my mom wants you out of the district alive. So that's what's she's getting."_

He didn't find me because that's where his obligation ended. It's the reason why I still can't tell him _all_ of my secrets, about the morphling, about anything.

"Why I what?" Gale asks.

"Never mind," I say gruffly. I brush ahead of him by a few steps so he can't see the conflict of emotions on my face. Who am I mad at? Myself, I guess. For dropping my defenses when Gale apologized last night.

I didn't drop them completely, since I didn't spill about the day of his whipping, or about Liquor and Water; but they're down enough. I forgot that all along Hazelle's been putting Gale up to things: to rescuing me, treating me better, apologizing last night. Even his hunting lessons are probably a sham, what with his new knowledge of my revolutionary activity coupled with Hazelle's interference. If anything, Gale's simply turned into a more willing puppet. I need to remember this, to keep my defenses up, so that I don't get my hopes up instead. So that maybe one day we can be friends because he likes who I am, not because he has to.

We walk downstream without another word. Once in a while I catch him looking at me, which means he's caught me looking at him. But I don't ask, and neither does he. Bristel and the kids have already cleared out when we reach Bristel's tree. I find Rory's corduroys lying in the same spot where I left them, and quickly pull them up over my streaming legs, then hasten up the bank toward camp.

Gale comes up behind me and bumps the elbow of the arm that's clutching the spear. "Look what Madge caught."

I lift the fish end and blush as Prim, Vick, and Posy actually clap for me, not used to being the center of attention _at all_. At least not outside of my family, and usually everybody was preoccupied, rightly, with my mother.

"How do I get it off?" I ask Gale.

"Just pull it off," he replies.

"But what about all the spines?"

"They won't hurt you if you grab the fish the right way."

I swallow nervously and make a face. "Um, which way would that be?"

"Here." Gale takes the spear. "It's a little trickier when they're alive and flopping around, but all you have to do is run your hand in the direction the spines are going and smooth them down before you grip. See?"

"Yes." What I see is that his hand is a lot bigger than mine, but there's something delicate in the fingers. Not in a frail, effeminate way. Something careful, and intentional. I picture them flying gently over the keyboard of a piano. Nothing like the grasping fingers of Liquor, who could use them to choke the life out of…

"Then pull, in this case. Otherwise this is how you'd hold it to get the hook out."

"What do you do if it's wiggling a lot?"

"Katniss used to hold them down lightly with her boot, but it's rare that they're that active after they've been out of the water."

"Okay."

He hands the spear back to me and I run my hand over the dorsal fin, like he said, smoothing down the spines. It feels funny as my hand encloses on the fish. I slide it off the spear and it leaves a wet trail on the wood. When the fish is completely off, the wound reveals the damaged innards. I swallow.

"Now you need to learn how to clean it."

"Um…"

"Here's a boning knife."

"Gale, she's turning green," says Hazelle.

He looks at me closer. "Maybe some other time?" he says.

I nod weakly.

So, Gale hands the knife to Rory and gives him a lesson on filleting bluegills. When that's done, Rory lays the fillet aside, if it can be called a fillet at that size, and the three hunters go on a snare run.

While they're gone, Hazelle offers to help me reapply more of Mrs. E's poison remedy.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asks as she spreads the cool salve over my back.

"A little." I pull a loose hair away from my face, while the rest of it's bunched up in my other hand. "It doesn't burn so much. I wish it didn't look so awful."

Hazelle gives me a knowing look, but only says, "It'll clear up soon."

"I hope so."

She gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry. We'll set you to rights. I'm just glad Vick found you when he did, with the shape you were in."

_You have no idea_, I think.

When she's done I lower my shirt and start rubbing the salve into my legs, thinking of how utterly they failed me this afternoon. Ugh. Hideous.

I've finished my beauty regimen when Gale's little hunting crew brings back some kind of large, grey rodent I've never seen before, as well as two rabbits and a quail. For dinner, Gale presents the roasted fish to me. His lips twitch, and there's mischief in his eyes.

I wrinkle my nose.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. It's just…not very big." That is an understatement. The meat, without the scales and bones, doesn't amount to much more than a fish stick. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"Not bad for a first," he says with a note of laughter. "I can show you how to make a line, sometime. Or I can teach you to swim so you don't have to be afraid to wade in deeper." The teasing smile he gives me transforms his whole face.

I smile back. "Thanks."

* * *

TBC

_Thanks for reading! _

Ceylon, as ever, thanks for beta-ing!


	10. Chapter 9

**AN**: Oh boy. I have been excited about this chapter for a few months and now I finally get to show you!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_Gale's POV_

Rory, Bristel, Vick and I wait around the cooking fire for the women to finish washing up, trying not to get too ornery smelling the food.

"Gale, I want to come on the snare run," Vick says, sidling up next to me. His face glows pink from too much sun yesterday.

I hesitate a moment, making sure that's what he really said. Out of all the kids, he's the most like Mom, in looks and everything. Not that Mom has any hang-ups about getting elbow deep in grit and guts, but she's got a gentler side, and Vick's never shown much interest in the forest. But since Madge came he's acted a little pluckier. It's not hard to guess why. Vick blushed like a burning bush in October when he promised to save her from drowning. The memory makes me grin. Then I frown, realizing how she's bewitched my family.

"Please, Gale."

"Sure, kiddo. If you want," I reply, ruffling his hair. "Hunting puts hair on your chest."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Is that true? Because Rory doesn't have any. I looked yesterday when we were swimming."

"Shut up," Rory growls.

I lean down to fake a whisper. "That's because he hasn't killed anything yet." Vick grins, revealing gaps where he's lost some baby teeth.

Rory mutters something libelous about me under his breath, but then shuts up pretty quick. I look up as Madge appears at the tree line between the field and the creek, the first to return.

"It's like there's another little Rory running around in those clothes," Bristel muses low enough so only we can hear. "A Rory with buttercup-yellow hair and soft, curvy hips."

"Yeah," Rory agrees dreamily. "Pretty."

The hair rises on the back of my neck and I thwap them each upside the head. "Knock it off, Rory. And you," I growl, rounding on Bristel, "what's that supposed to be? Poetry?"

Bristel shrugs it off. "Women have that effect on me," he says with a lazy grin. Something about it makes the muscle in my face tic.

"No one's allowed to be affected by any of the women on this crew," I say firmly.

Vick nods earnestly, his naïve eyes fixed on me. The least of my worries. He can fall in love with Madge all he wants. How much trouble can an eleven year old boy get into? Bristel on the other hand...I favor him with a scowl.

"Yessir," Bristel smirks impudently.

Rory pipes up. "Even if my shirt smells like her when she gives it back? Ow."

I consider giving his head a third smack for emphasis but think better of it. "She's your sister from now on, Rory. I mean it."

"No, she isn't." He frowns, rubbing the back of his head. "She doesn't even look like me. Just dresses like me."

Bristel's face smoothes into the benign expression of an angel. The scruffy, hobo kind that's up to no good. All right, a devil. "She can't be your sister and mine at the same time. Don't work that way."

"Actually, she looks more like Prim's sister," Rory concludes. "And if she were Prim's sister, you'd probably like her better."

"Shut up," I mutter, "I like her well enough." Rory's words sting a little, and the whole conversation seems wrong. Before I know it I'm on my feet. When I've walked a few steps away I swear I can hear muffled cackling behind me, so I turn back to look. Bristel gives Rory a thumbs up. What are they up to?

I turn my back on them. They're trying to get a rise out of me, but it won't work. Although, something's got me triggered. I don't care for that kind of jesting, not in the mines, not here, and certainly not at my expense. And not at Madge's either. Having a little sister to look after puts things into perspective.

But then something occurs to me. I think Rory and Bristel are just fooling around, but Madge might not realize that. Would she ever consider Bristel? Makes sense. Suppose there isn't a District 13 after all, and the rebellion is off somewhere we can't get to. I guess she'd want to be with somebody. Or even if we did make it to Thirteen, she won't know anyone else, will she? Bristel's strong. Even tempered, which is more than I can say. Certainly old enough. A girl might find him mildly attractive. But can Bristel set a snare in his sleep? Could he really take care of her? He's my best friend, but those things have to be considered objectively. Truth to tell, I could take better care of her than he could. I already _am_.

Right. If she wants him, who am I to say she can't? That doesn't mean I shouldn't look out for her. After all, I got her out of Twelve, so she's my responsibility.

_Gale Hawthorne, what is going on?_ I chide myself. So what if there's an unattached female wreaking havoc in the mostly male population of this crew, and I certainly am not prepared to play chaperone? Turn around and take control. Plus, _plus_, there are the mothers for Bristel to contend with. Mom and Mrs. E wouldn't let him pull anything. "Ha!" I bark triumphantly. It echoes over the meadow and Vick turns around to look at me.

With measured steps, I urge myself back to camp where Bristel chats with Madge by the fire pit. He holds out a clean tin just so, causing her to touch him. Hell's teeth. What a bastard.

"Mornin', Miss Undersee," I hear him prattle. "How are you on this radiant day?" Madge looks a little overwhelmed, with her signature blink, but he just carries on. "Care for some charred woodchuck?"

"Thank you, Bristel." Madge smiles timidly and holds out her tin.

"You are very welcome," he replies with a grin just as I join them. "The rash looks much better this morning. Clearing up already."

"You think so?" Madge asks, lifting a hand to her cheek. "Well, it doesn't itch as much, at least. Mrs. Everdeen's salve really works." Then she turns to me and asks, "Gale, are you okay?"

"Huh?" I stammer. A dull pain throbs in my knuckles, and I realized that I've been clenching my fists. Hard. I release the tension in my fingers and ease them into my trouser pockets. Casual and aloof. "I'm fine."

"Oh." Second confused blink of the day. "You look like you've bitten your tongue." Then she accepts a mug of that chicory brew and goes to keep Prim company.

When she out of hearing range, I whisper to Bristel under my breath, "Don't do that."

"What?" he says through a mouthful of meat.

"That charming thing you're trying to pull. Knock it off."

Bristel shakes his head. "Manners, not charm, Hawthorne. You know, you could be more sociable once in a while. It wouldn't kill you."

"I am sociable," I grumble.

"Scowling is anti-social, pretty sure." Bristel picks something out of his teeth, then continues. "But you're right; you can be sociable…when you want to be, which is rare. And never with women, as far as I've seen." His eyes wander toward the only female present beside feverish Prim. Seeing the two together, I can't help but notice the difference in maturity, in every sense.

Still, I say, "Madge is just a girl." Well, she's young anyway.

"With a build like that?" Bristel's eyes nearly swivel out of his head, obviously seeing things the same way as me, but much more honest about it. "I don't think so. She's a woman, all right."

I find myself looking again and annoyance shoots through me. "I don't care what she looks like," I grouse.

"Good." He elbows my ribs, setting off a silent, yet colorful diatribe. "Then you won't mind if I do."

What is that supposed to mean? Scratch that. I know exactly what he means. What am I supposed to do about it?

…

_Madge's POV_

Something's shifted in the group dynamic since this morning. I'm not sure what, but it feels like there's some competition going on between Bristel and Gale. Must be a guy thing I wouldn't understand or appreciate, so I stick to Prim while they sort it out. She's shivering, even though the humid air hangs over us like a damp sheet. Mrs. Everdeen used her last bouillon cube yesterday, but there's enough broth left to coax another mug-full into her.

Hazelle says she wants to wash blankets and clothes today while Prim's too sick to move. When we've finished clearing up after breakfast, I offer to help. But Hazelle has other ideas.

"Madge, why don't you go gather with the boys since you've shown an interest in it." She turns to Gale. "Vick's tagging along anyway, right? Madge won't be in the way."

"Sure." Gale shrugs, not revealing an opinion either way.

Bristel beams. "Madge, why don't you come on the snare run? I can show you how to…"

Gale cuts him off. "Actually, I think you boys can handle that on your own."

"But," Rory interjects, "I don't know how to reset the…"

"It's a challenge," Gale says, rummaging around in his game bag. "See how much you remember. Take Vick with you. Should be fun."

"But…"

"Gale, I don't mind helping with the snares," I say, feeling awkward in the middle of a mild dispute.

He pins me with his eyes and everything narrows down to only us. "I promised to show you how to rig up a fish line."

"That sounds like a good idea," I vaguely hear Hazelle chirp, and the discussion carries on without us.

"Unless you don't want to fish with me today," Gale says in an undertone.

I swallow, unsure if the emphasis is on fishing or being with him, and try not to sound as eager as I feel. "I-I'd like that, actually."

He pulls a battered box the size of a half loaf of bread out of his bag. "Then it's settled."

…

I didn't know quail bones make good hooks, but they do. Well, okay, mine don't hold up, but Gale can tie knots with the finest line from the box he brought, and not only make it stick, but make it _lethal_. I don't even want to hold his hooks for fear of sticking myself. And honestly, my self-esteem is taking a huge hit watching his nimble fingers go. His hands are bigger than mine, but I feel like I've got fat sausages tacked onto my hands instead of fingers. And then there's one irreconcilable difference between Gale and me: I don't think the earthworms wriggle because they're happy. But do I bait my share of the hooks without complaint?

Yes.

Because I'm pretty sure he finds worm-gut fingers attractive. Because after all the furtive non-glances of yesterday, I wonder if a little shmear on my fingers might not put him off all together. Besides, nothing can be worse than half-healed poison ivy legs.

"So what do we do now?" I ask as he drops the last of the core lines in the water.

"Something useful," he replies, testing the tautness of the suspension line he rigged up between a sapling and my spear, which he drove into the riverbed. "Gather greens or eggs, and the like." But instead of doing any of that, he sits down next to me on the bank, putting things away in his tackle box. "So how'd you come up with that spear technique in the first place?"

I shift uneasily. "Those girls I was with, remember?" It seems like ages ago, but the memory still makes me squirm.

"Yes." His eyebrow quirks up to let me know he's listening.

"Uh…we found some," I swallow, "grown-ups and they showed us once. That's how we got food."

"Who were these grown-ups?" he asks without looking up.

I shrug. "Some men."

Gale pauses in the middle of winding clear line around a spool. "Men from Twelve?" he asks, quickly.

"That's what they said, but I'd never seen them before. I watched them make a spear and how to fish with it."

Gale gives me a sidelong glance. "Did you trust them?"

"What kind of a question is that?" I snap, feeling upset by how close his questions are getting to territory I do not want to enter.

He shrugs and goes back to winding. "You don't mention anything about them one way or the other. Seems odd if they traveled with you and kept you from starving."

"We didn't really have a choice but to trust them, since we were starving," I remark coolly.

"They also left you behind," he says. "Doesn't sound like a pleasant group of people."

"They didn't. I decided to take off on my own."

"Why?" he asks. Ugh. I want him to stop asking me questions.

"Just because," I snap, "I didn't like them."

His eyes narrow. "Sounds like a big risk over of a clash of personalities."

"I know it doesn't seem like it, but I made a good decision." I rub my eyes, which burn a little. "I wish I'd grown up like you, because then we wouldn't have needed help."

His face draws upward with shock. "You don't know what you're saying." A thread of anger colors his voice. "Nobody should have to spend every waking moment trying to keep his family on the right side of starvation."

"You're right," I murmur. "But at least you can."

"If I was a merchant's son, I'd never wish to come from the Seam." He sneers. "Why would you need these skills? Your father could buy you anything you wanted."

I catch that angry thread and hold onto it. "Not everything," I say unevenly. "It didn't buy him a way out of the district, did it? That's what I wanted most in the world."

Gale backs down. "I guess not."

I'm not ready to drop it, though. "The merchants weren't that fortunate. I mean, has it ever dawned on you that the Peacekeepers left the mayor there along with everyone else?"

"That's not my fault," he snaps.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," I retort spitefully.

Gale looks like I slapped him. I squeeze my eyes shut to block it out, cursing myself for feeling sentimental about worm guts. And for thinking we could have a pleasant afternoon.

"Anything else you'd like to get off your chest, Miss Undersee?"

"_No_."

"That's a lie, Madge. You're angry with me for something more than social differences. What is it?"

I take a deep breath because it's hard for me to just lay things on the line, especially with him. Everything I've ever said or done has been calculated, veiled, or withheld completely. Honesty will only leave me vulnerable. But since he asked…I guess I'll try. See how he likes it.

"I just don't understand how you are so capable, yet refuse to help anyone else unless you have to."

Gale just stares in surprise for a moment as his face slowly turns red. "What do you mean?" he finally asks, his voice sharp as a razor. "I am constantly helping. _That's all I ever do_."

"Sure, your own family." I'm almost yelling. "I'm talking about helping people who don't belong to you, but still need you." And now I am yelling. "How could you leave my parents without even trying to help them get out? How could you leave them behind _knowing it would kill them_?"

"Your parents weren't my responsibility, Madge," he shouts back. "I'm sorry they're dead, but I needed to find my family. I take care of them first. That's my job and it's good enough. I'm all that Posy, and Vick, and Rory have. Nobody sticks out their necks for them, but me. Not when my father died and not now."

"It's not enough to take care of the people who belong to you, Gale. My mother didn't know you, but that didn't stop her – " I bite down on my lip, hard, cutting off the rest of that thought. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." I turn away from him.

"Finish that sentence," he orders. When I don't, he rakes his fingers through his hair, and his whole face pinches from frustration. "God. I hate it when you do that."

My chest is heaving with adrenaline and anger. "You did something really awful – no, what you _didn't_ do was awful. And I don't understand how you're okay with that."

"I know you think that," he says after a while. "And I'm sorry, but it's not that simple."

"Simple? You wouldn't leave _your_ family behind." I sit on my hands to keep from smacking him. "_You made me leave mine_."

His eyes blaze. "At your father's request, because the thought of you dying distressed him. Does that mean anything to you? What do you want me to do, Madge?" His voice is so cold, belying the rage on his face, and I find I don't have an answer. What do I want from him? "I can't change the past and I had my family to think of. I'm sorry it happened that way, and an apology is all I have to offer you."

"You should have helped me bring them," I press on. "We could have saved them together."

Gale's face slackens. "A grown man can make his own decisions. Your father didn't want to go. Accept that your parents wanted to die in District 12."

I'm stricken by the idea, as though Gale's words bite into me like the lash of Thread's whip. "That's a lie," I whisper.

"No, Madge, it isn't." He looks sorry. He actually looks sorry. It makes my eyes and throat burn.

The rage drains away as the thought seeps into my bones, replaced by something worse. My dad chose to die with my mom without trying. Just the two of them. Even though we're a family. Nonono.

But maybe? My dad would have tried if that's what he wanted, wouldn't he? Dad made me go without them. Made me go alone. But how do you blame someone who's dead? It's so much easier to blame Gale. He's callous enough, I think.

These awful sounds start coming out of my mouth, half-choked sobs that only sound worse the more I try to hide them. I curl my arms around my legs and hide my face in my knees. And for all I know it's just me sitting by the river, scaring every animal off with the rasping in my throat.

Then I feel an arm around my shoulder, gently pulling me against him. Gale whispers soothing words against my temple, like I'm some wounded creature he's bound to protect, the way he speaks to Posy and Prim.

The sobs soften, exhausted by the passing gamut of emotion. And maybe because the press of his fingers on my arm, and the warmth of his breath above my ear is working. I droop against his chest, and he doesn't even push me away.

We sit in silence for a while, absorbing the balmy, sunlit air, and discovering each new scent of the meadow as the wind stirred the tops of trees along the riverbank. It's peaceful after shouting and feeling hateful things.

But the peace never lasts long. The quiet brings its own shadows, leaving me defenseless against the darkness of memories that only activity and hardship can ward off.

The guilt comes first. Always. For surviving. For not protecting my mother, who is – no – was too frail to look after herself. For allowing my dad to be a hero and sacrifice himself. Maybe it's not right to feel so responsible, and maybe my dad didn't mean for me to since he chose to stay, like Gale said. But I don't know how to stop.

Then there's guilt of another kind. I don't want to leave this spot until I've made things better with Gale. We don't understand very much about each other, that's certain. It's something I can rectify. I hope.

And maybe he can teach me about survival of a different kind.

"Gale, what was it like for you when your father died?" I wipe my nose with the back of my hand before glancing up. Gale doesn't look at me, just stares out into the thicket on the other side of the creek. I feel him shift, so I scoot away a little. His arm falls from my side, as he physically draws inward.

"Bad." His face looks haggard. That's all he can say for now.

I get up to rinse my hands off in the water, thinking. "Some mornings I expect to wake up in my house. Safe. Only to realize that I'm not, and there's nothing between me and whatever bad is out there." Turning to face him, I lift my hand only to drop it. "I'll never feel safe like that again."

Gale smoothes a hand over the grass where I had been sitting, so I hunker back down next to him. "I had to grow up overnight." His voice is low in his throat. "I went from older brother to a sort of dad figure to my brothers. And Posy—she feels more like my own kid." He's picking at the delicate fringes of a fern, giving me a sideways glance. "I learned to be my own safety. Katniss and I, we could hunt. It expelled a lot of pent-up energy, gave me focus. It's hard to feel desperate when you've got a line of rabbits and squirrels to eat or trade."

"Meeting Katniss helped, too. Didn't it?" I ask, focusing on the tattered fern.

His voice falters. "We were friends – the only relationship I had that my dad's death didn't distort. I wasn't responsible for her, or she for me. But we relied on each other. I miss that."

I want to slip my hand into his, but I hold back, uncertain of his reaction. "I miss her, too. Katniss was my first real friend. Lately I've been wondering what she would do in my place." I give a gurgling laugh. "She wouldn't have been half as stuck. It's hard to believe…" _that she didn't make it_.

"The hardest thing is the constant need of a reminder, you know?" He throws the fern away. "I keep thinking that I must show Katniss this new snare or tell her what I've learned about…whatever…and then remember that I can't. It feels like someone gutted me."

Gale _looks_ like he's been gutted, and I feel guilty for bringing this up in the first place. He hasn't looked like a guy grieving for his friend. Until now. And it's awful. And I think he's reached his limit, but then he begins speaking again. "It feels as if I'm waiting for something to happen only it never does. Possibly at any moment someone will wake me up and announce that it was all a great joke, things can go on like before...with Katniss and me. But no one does. And things can't go back to the way they were. But I'm still waiting. Only I don't know what for anymore."

Gale turns to me and his gray eyes shimmer with tears. I find myself reaching for his hand and taking it. I start to withdraw it and mumble an awkward apology, but his fingers close around mine and hold tight. Gale's eyes bore into mine, looking for answers as earnestly as I am. His face turned so close to mine that I can smell the wood smoke and sweat mingled together, and the mint we had after breakfast on his breath as it brushes my cheek. Emboldened, my other hand reaches for him, trails down his high cheek bone to his stubbly jaw. Then my hand drops, fingers curled, into my lap. Embarrassed, I grimace at it.

"I don't know if I can let her go completely," Gale confesses almost to himself. My cheeks burn, but I make myself look up. He's gazing between the hand in my lap and the hand locked with his. Then his eyes dart to my face, and they narrow thoughtfully. "Maybe I don't have to?"

I barely have time to wonder when Gale's fingers curl under my chin. His thumb brushes over my lips just before his own lips cover mine, fleetingly at first. His whiskers tickle, but I don't pull away. I don't even breathe. His other fingers feel like starbursts as they trail down my arm, gathering me closer to his side. When Gale pulls back, the tip of his nose skims the side of mine while he gazes at me. The intensity in his grey eyes sets my nerves trembling. I'm tempted to rest my forehead against his so we'll both close our eyes. But then his lips cover mine again. Fully. It's warm under the press of his mouth and my stomach flips back on itself. I move in rhythm with him, shuddering when his teeth gently graze my bottom lip, deepening the kiss.

I'm melting into him, tasting him while he explores my mouth. Gale makes a sound deep in his throat. It reverberates through him, and I feel it in mine. His arms lure me in further, anchoring me to his body, crushing my hands against his chest. My bones melt away as his thumb slowly presses a trail down my spine, resting on the small of my back. I shiver and feel his answering smile against my lips.

A protesting gasp escapes me when he moves away, taking the warmth with him. The corner of his mouth twitches upward at the sound. Then his lips trace my jaw, smoothing his way to my throat. For a moment he presses his nose where my shoulder meets my throat and inhales softly, before leaving a trail of kisses along my collar bone where Rory's shirt gapes open. I let go of his shirt and reach up to caress the nape of his neck. The muscles in his shoulders hitch beneath my touch as I blindly trace my way, threading unsteady fingers through the long, black strands of his hair.

I'm on his lap when he gives me one last brush on the corner of my mouth. I rest my head on his shoulder while we catch our breath. His hand lingers on my lower back, the other gently tangling in my hair. I lean back enough to see his eyes. I'm surprised by how dark they are, trained on my hair. He strokes a strand of it caught between his fingers, swallowing hard. Then his fingers slip down the lock, grazing my arm with his knuckles till the strand ends.

His voice is husky when he speaks. "You aren't interested in Bristel, by any chance?"

I manage a raspy chuckle and I push off of him, though it's difficult with my body this flushed and boneless. "If I were interested in Bristel, I'd let him kiss me. Not you."

Gale's eyebrows contract. "I should have asked first before kissing you." He blinks for a bit. What a funny thing to do. "You probably didn't want…"

"Gale, I've wanted you to kiss me since I was eleven." I look away and stammer, "Although at that age, my idea of kissing was a little more basic."

Silence.

I can't believe I just confessed that. Ugh. But if I hadn't felt the desire in his kiss (my stomach flips again remembering the way he groaned), then I'd be bracing for the worst. And I'm embarrassed, but not afraid. Not necessarily. Very much.

Gale's fingers grip my chin again, gently making me look at him. His eyes are wide. "Me?"

"I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't want to," I mumble awkwardly. My ears are burning.

"I never would have thought…I didn't know," he finishes lamely.

"Of course not," I murmur. _How could you?_ I secretly add. _Before yesterday we weren't even friends_. "Besides the fact that you openly despised me," I give him a moment to deny it, which he doesn't, "only a fool would admit as much knowing how you felt about Katniss. Plus," A self-deprecating smile spreads over my face, "half the time I want to hit you over the head _more _than I want to kiss you."

He frowns. "For what?"

I huff and fight the urge to bury my face in his shoulder again. "For being such a snob."

Gale gapes like that's the last thing he expected me to say. "I'm not a snob," he denies, sounding offended and confounded. "Snobs…snobs have money."

"That's stupid," I say, though there isn't any venom in it. "All a person needs to be a snob is an opinion that puts him in a position superior to someone else."

His lips quirk into a lopsided, wry grimace. "Quoting someone?"

"No, I just made that up," I say, folding my arms over my chest.

"Huh, right. So I'm a snob. With all my good qualities it's no wonder you were smitten," he gripes.

"Fortunately, you do have some good qualities," I allow, a mite facetiously.

Gale snorts. "Well, let's have it."

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. Although it feels safer to speak out of sarcasm, this isn't really the time for it. I want Gale to know what I truly think about him. "I was nearly twelve when you first came to our door asking for laundry." I pause to see if he remembers. Judging by the hard set of his jaw, I guess he does. "It's the first time I remember seeing you, but I'd heard about the accident in the mines from my dad. We didn't have anything for you, but then you came back to sell strawberries. Katniss told me you'd been in the woods together. I admired your bravery, because I'd always wanted to go, but felt too scared."

I pause but he doesn't say anything. His fingers twiddle with the hem on the back of my shirt. So I plug onward. "I started to look forward to when you would show up at the back door, and it became a game to see if I could get there with the money before Hanna." I laugh a little. "But I think what really made me care for you, what I admired most, was how you took care of your family. You don't think I get what that's like, but I do." I look down and mumble, "Because I'd been taking care of my mother for years. But unlike your family, nothing in the woods could help her." I finish with a half-shrug, quietly waiting for whatever.

Then he hugs me to his chest again. "I'm sorry about your parents."

That's all he says.

"So now what?" I ask into his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, and then I feel a hesitation in his fingers that hadn't been there before. My heart gutters like a candle. I sit up. "What?"

His face isn't closed, but his eyes are veiled.

"I need to think about this."

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TBC

_Happy Valentine's Day, and thank you for reading! _

_And thanks again to Ceylon205 for beta-ing. _

Also, LuckyAngel710: Since I can't reply to you personally, I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your reviews! Thanks!


	11. Chapter 10

**AN: **This is a short teaser that was supposed to be tacked on to the end of the last chapter. But the POV switched awkwardly, so now it's standing alone.

_Thanks to Ceylon205!_

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**Chapter 10**

_Gale's POV_

Under the cover of night, I finally have the privacy to let my mind drift back to the afternoon – the majority of which focus on the grey patch in the grass opposite me. Right now, Madge lies curled up with Posy across the pit, where the fire's banked low. I cross my arms beneath my head and watch the way the blanket rises just slightly when she breathes.

She hasn't said much since, well, I kissed her. We left the fish line behind and I showed her how to rig a snare along a game trail we passed. Madge doesn't have much of a knack for snares. Although, I guess her heart wasn't in it at the time. I don't really blame her. I grit my teeth – you don't just kiss a girl and then all but admit you don't know what it means. I cringe and wonder if we'll ever have an uneventful conversation like normal people. If we aren't fighting, Madge up and reveals world-bending secrets or gets me to reveal my own. Hell's teeth. I don't remember the last time I've talked to anyone about what happened when Dad died. Or Katniss.

The kiss just sort of happened. I guess talking about all that feelings stuff had me keyed up. But it'd be a lie to say that I haven't wanted to kiss Madge. Admittedly, without Bristel smarming all over her this morning, it would've taken longer for me to come around to admitting it.

A slow grin spreads across my face. I wonder what Bristel would say if he heard Madge admit that if she liked him, she'd let him kiss her instead of me. Sucker.

Or maybe I'm the sucker, I don't know. When her lips moved beneath mine, the first thought to skitter through my consciousness was _this is what it's like when a girl kisses you back._

And then I realized that the girl is _Madge_. Not Katniss. Not even a girl from the Seam. I knew I should stop, but I took my time about it. It didn't feel truly wrong until after she confessed…everything. The guilt felt like a punch in the gut. I remember that first laundry run, when my mom got back on her feet after Posy came. I don't remember seeing Madge, though. Not till Katniss and I started selling strawberries to her family. She'd been thinking of me that whole time, while I hardly noticed her except to criticize.

I could stay away from her, of course.

But I won't. I know I won't.

And out here in the middle of nowhere who's to say I should?

It's something, seeing her with a few trace blisters on her face, a little dirt on her nose. And beneath all that, white skin and freckles. Bright blue eyes like alyssum.

Beneath _that_, someone attainable. And to hear her tell it, maybe I have something to offer her.

I mean, I love Katniss, but I noticed other girls. Maybe a part of me felt inadequate around Madge? What does a guy from the Seam have to offer an official's daughter? Nothing. It's laughable for a miner to even think he could court a merchant girl. And offers of friendship are met with suspicion from every concerned merchant _father_.

Intensify that by ten for a father who's got a three-story house in the Officials' Circle. Man, every one of her family members could have an entire floor to himself. I would have been thankful for my own mattress.

I end that thought before it drudges up old irritations.

The fact is not everybody can pull an Everdeen. And that marriage is a classic example of why a guy shouldn't try. Merchant girls just don't hold up.

Except for Madge.

Images of her flicker through my mind. Madge running through the district while the ash falls around her. I remember swatting burning coals out of her hair. Yesterday it smelled like flowers and soap, and it tumbled loose down her back. My fingers curl, remembering the feel of it.

I remember her lying in the grass the day Vick found her. She looked ghoulish and filthy, nothing like her normal, pristine self. Untouchably clean. Delicate. I wonder when she stopped looking so vacant?

Then there's Madge defiantly announcing that she gave herself poison itch on purpose like a crazy girl, or telling me to shut up while she grips a knife. And Madge who smoothes Prim's hair. Or stands poised in the creek with her spear, wearing nothing but a shirt. Her little victory with the bluegill.

Madge the _revolutionary_ with a secret life, but also a daughter who took care of her mother. They could've paid for a nurse, but they didn't. It's a side of the Undersee family I'd never considered.

She's hurt, that's certain. But she isn't broken. Maybe a little unhinged, but who isn't these days? Lately I've been feeling a bit unhinged myself.

It's hard to sort through all the things I'm thinking and feeling. There's the feeling of wanting Madge, of longing for Katniss, of that red-hot feeling of betrayal.

Hatred for the Capitol and for Peeta Mellark. Involuntarily, the memory of watching the Quarter Quell comes to me. If there's anything real within that mess of intrigue they had going on, it's that when Peeta would kiss Katniss, Katniss kissed back. She said that she _needed_ him, not that _if she were somewhere else then maybe she could feel differently _junk.

Why should I feel guilty for wanting Madge? I laid my feelings out plainly for Katniss and she didn't want me. And I saw the _want_ in her eyes when she said her last goodbye to Mellark.

But I know it isn't guilt as though I betrayed Katniss…I feel like I'm betraying myself. Because, even though Katniss is dead, I still want her. And if she were alive, I know she still wouldn't choose me.

And now she simply _isn't here_.

But I'm still alive – and I have a fighting chance of staying that way. And hopefully there's a District 13 to run to where my family can find a new community to belong to. A place where my brothers and sister can grow up and have families. There's even that possibility for me, if I give myself the chance.

_I never want to have kids_

_I might if I didn't live here._

Of course I wasn't completely level with her when I said that. I felt more than willing to settle down with Katniss and start a family, in Twelve or out of Twelve. But how do you admit that to a girl who just denounced any desire for a family _at all_? I thought Katniss would be my comfort when I'd come home from those grueling days in the mines. The idea of that future made it seem bearable. And I suppose on some level I didn't really believe her when she said she didn't want to get married or have kids. Otherwise, I wouldn't have misinterpreted her motives behind running away with our families last winter. And by the time I actually began working under the crust, Peeta Mellark had limped into her life, spoiling that comfort forever.

If there is one positive thing about kissing Madge, and judging by the physical reaction that memory causes, I'm guessing there is more than one, then it's the new possibility that it has opened up. I can be with _someone_. I can _want_ someone else. Someone who wants me. Maybe I'm still too full of Katniss? Of course I am – it's only been a matter of days since she died. But there's time to move on, right? Time to know Madge better.

All the time in the world.

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TBC

_Thanks for reading! _


	12. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer**: Although I must confess that the copyright belongs to SC, I would like to note that I've probably used up more text specifically on Gale than she has – considering that this fic has officially reached the word count of a novel (and we're not even done yet!). Huzzah! I think it's only fair that we arm wrestle for keeps. Wow. Cocky much? Anyway, she can have the money…I just want Gale. ;)

_Special thanks to Ceylon205 for beta-ing FOUR chapter updates for me in a little over a week. Mahvelous!_

Edit: Hmm, seems the website added some interesting gobbledygook to one of the last few paragraphs. Fixed - Thanks, Ate Monay!

Edit Redux: Thanks to Geeky, who found more mistakes and took the time to learn me about CTRL F. I can haz brain cells. :P_  
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**Chapter 11**

_Madge's POV_

I don't want to wake up, so I squinch my eyes shut. It doesn't work. Posy's poking my eyelids.

"Honey, why don't you go poke Gale's eyelids," I say, even though he's probably long since gotten up.

Posy does as she's told and I'm rewarded with the sound of a muffled curse followed by little girl giggles. I guess he slept in today. Maybe, like me, he didn't sleep much. Ha.

I roll over onto my stomach, pulling the blanket over my head. Not that it really helps to hide anything. There's a rock digging into my ribs, but it's nowhere near as irritating as the constant mental recap of how much of a fool I made of myself yesterday. I assumed too much. In my world, a kiss means something concrete. It's not an experiment. So, I figured if Gale decided to kiss me, then he knew what he wanted. Turns out he didn't. I wish he'd come with a disclaimer on his forehead: "No physical agreements will be honored." And of course, he let me know he needed to think about it _after_ I told him how I felt. So now he knows, and I wish he didn't. I don't like the feeling that he can know something that personal about me, without me having the same advantage.

Then there's the matter of Katniss. I can groan into the dirt all I want, but it won't help me understand what he said about her right before he kissed me. And even if Gale suddenly decides that he is in love with me, even though she's gone, I can't help but feel that my happiness would be at her expense. And that makes me feel a little sick.

And yesterday's second humiliating moment doesn't detract from my feeling of guilt. When none of the boys were around, Hazelle pulled me aside and said that I looked like I'd been kissed. I almost spit my tea out on her – how do mothers know things like this? It reminds me of the hundreds of times I'd seen my parents exchange a glance after I'd said something, like they'd read into it way more than I'd intended or realized. The worst part was the look in Mrs. Everdeen's eyes. Hurt. And it dawned on me that she hasn't said very much to me lately, and is it possible that she resents me for being alive when Katniss is dead? For Gale kissing me because Katniss isn't here?

I don't know. How am I supposed to sort any of this out? Not for the first time, I wish my mother were here to talk to. Not that I don't trust Hazelle, but she's not exactly neutral.

My reverie is brought to an abrupt end by the invasion of a newt under my blanket. The unfortunate creature gets thrown a yard after clambering over my arm.

This sends the younger children racing after the thing while I recover from an embarrassing amount of screaming.

"Sorry, Madge," Vick says when he's got the newt tucked away in a pocket. He's standing next to me while I sit in the grass with the blanket puddling around my knees. He pats my head. We've been out in the wilderness so long that I'm only barely fazed by the fact that he hasn't washed his hands before touching my hair. "He sneaked off on me."

"That's okay. He just startled me a little," I reply with a shred of dignity. "Is that your pet?"

One never knows with the Hawthornes. And if newt is on the menu, I'm giving up meat for good.

"Yeah," Vick says with a happy sigh, peeking into his pocket. "I found him under a log yesterday when you and Gale were gone somewhere for _hours_."

I choke down a laugh, choosing to ignore that piece of curious censure. "What's his name?"

"I dunno." He shrugs. "I never had a pet before."

"You should give a pet a name. Can you think of any?"

He gives me a gap-toothed grin. "I'm gonna call him Bristel Jr."

"Watch it, pup," Bristel grouses, playfully pretending to cuff Vick in the jaw as he passes by. He winks at me. "No respect for his elders."

This makes me smile. "I didn't think you were old enough for that yet," I quip. _Thank goodness for Bristel_, I think. So easily pleased with everyone and himself. A pleasant change from Gale, who goes from hot to cold and then back again in a blink.

Bristel smirks and waggles his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm old enough."

"All right, food's on," I hear Gale call. He has a strangled look on his face as he stares Bristel down. "Come and get it."

"I'm in no rush," Bristel replies. He sits down, casually stretching his arms behind his head. "Think I'll have my breakfast over here."

I can't help laughing.

"Get off your lazy butt," Gale grouses.

Bristel gives me a sunny grin. "Well, I wonder what's bugging him?"

I shrug as innocently as possible. "I have no idea."

He snorts. "Course not."

The banter continues until Gale finally bullies Bristel into getting up. I admit I'm grateful for Bristel's buffoonery, as it takes away the awkwardness of this great unknown _thing_ between Gale and me. And _I_ know Bristel is only teasing, even if Gale looks like he's eaten a bunch of sour apples. It reminds me of Gale's silly question yesterday. Does Gale think his friend is serious? I don't know how it can upset the dear boy after I told him exactly what I felt for him.

…

The morning slips away and still we haven't spoken. After breakfast, Gale convinced Mrs. Everdeen to take his bandages off for good. Meanwhile, Rory describes to me the way shards of wood were lodged in Gale's skin and I know I'm going to be sick if I don't walk away. I mean, I can _see_ the long, knobby scabs, and that's enough. I take a short walk with Posy, watching her run around in the long grass, decapitating wildflowers. When we've come back, Gale's already busied himself by taking stock of all the gear and provisions, and making Bristel and Rory run around doing odd tasks. Prim's fever broke last night, so Gale wants to get back to the forest and resume our journey to Thirteen as quickly as possible. Tomorrow, if we can.

Gale's task-oriented like that…_or possibly avoiding you_, a traitorous voice warns. Gale can be pretty direct, but I still remember how he avoided Katniss and Peeta's return celebration held at my house. I remember it because I dressed up for nothing, and spent the evening wishing I could hide in my bedroom with my disappointment. Instead my dad made me dance with his clerk. Ugh.

There really isn't anything for me to do, so I decide to clean myself up…though by the standards of only a few days ago, I'm practically spotless. Although, I'd hate to think of these fingers ever touching my Grandmother Undersee's piano. Might as well take advantage of the free time and the shallows.

I'm walking down the bank, lost in thought, when I find myself suddenly redirected by the elbow. I'm brought to a stop behind a clump of large rhododendrons, just short of getting a mouthful of leaves. I back up a step to see familiar tattered corduroys, grey t-shirt, and a straight nose hedged under by a straggly beard. Heavy eyebrows nearly obscured by a shock of long, black hair.

_How does he do that? I left him back at camp, the beast! _

"You're awful pushy, Gale, you know that?" I snipe, trying to quell my embarrassment at suddenly being alone with him. Not to mention the traitorous thrill jogging my nerves. "Somebody ought to put a bell around your neck."

"Sorry, Madge," he replies, though he doesn't look very contrite. And if the upturned corners of his mouth are any indication, he's pleased about something. "I need to talk to you."

I huff and cross my arms, just bracing for more emotional whiplash, and trying not to appear too eager. "I suppose I have the time."

That seems to amuse him more, so I shoot him a glare. If only my eyebrows were a fraction as ominous as his. Wishful thinking. I'll never be able to achieve his level of scary.

Gale's face turns grave. "About yesterday…I'm sorry I left you hanging like that," he says. "This is a confusing time for me, and I act without thinking things through sometimes. I acted out of line, kissing you."

Ugh, I don't really want to hear about his _regret_. I swallow back the lump in my throat, feeling a familiar burn in my cheeks. "Okay. It shouldn't have happened. Fine," I say flatly, trying to move past him with what's left of my pride, but his hand's still attached to my elbow.

"That isn't what I meant. I'm not saying it shouldn't have happened at all. Just not the way it did." He smiles a little. "I figured out what it meant to me. I've also thought about what you told me."

The blush burns down my throat and I don't even respond.

He tips my chin up. "I'm not going to mock you, Madge."

"I wish I hadn't said anything to you at all," I mumble.

His eyebrows rise. "Why? I'm glad you did."

Then _my_ eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Really?

"I guess I always figured you were above feeling interested in a grimy miner. Until yesterday…It changes things." I search his gray eyes. They're clear of any mischief or derision. "I've made up my mind," he says, then waits expectantly for me to ask what that is. Like he's watching me open a present.

Ugh. I have to stifle the childish impulse to pull his hair.

Instead I grit my teeth. "You made up your mind? Well, I'm glad you've had time to think about all this." Jabbing a finger into his chest, I gripe, "You sure did _take your time_ letting me know."

"Madge…I," he gapes.

"Just hold on a minute." I hold up the same finger that I bruised him with. "Before you say anything, I have a few questions of my own, because I can't make sense of anything that happened yesterday."

"All right," he says in a calculated tone. What did he expect? That I'd shout _huzzah_ and kiss his lips off? No way.

I cross my arms over my chest. "What did you mean yesterday, about letting Katniss go…but not really?"

His fingers scrunch the hair on the back of his head. "Look. Katniss is a part of me. I can't just switch that off."

Hesitantly I ask, "So what does that mean for us?"

Gale takes a deep breath. "It means I want to court you. But if we wait till I've stopped grieving for Katniss…well, we'll probably be too old to enjoy it much."

My head spins a little, wondering if I'm hearing things right. Hearing the right things? "So…you made a decision?"

He nods. "Already have."

"Oh." I bite my lip and self-consciously wrinkle my nose. "So…are you choosing…me?"

Gale throws his head back, laughter booming through the thicket. "You look like I'm going to drown kittens and make you watch."

I swat his shoulder. "Don't laugh at me! I've been waiting…feeling _horrible_…."

"Sorry." He tries to plant a kiss on my nose, but I hold my hand up between us.

"Nope. I'm not making the same mistake as yesterday. No more of that until you say it straight."

His cheeks sliver into long dimples on both sides as he tries to keep this amusement down. "You're my girlfriend, if that suits you."

I blink. There. He said it. This is the part where I defend my dignity. I think. But…I don't want to balk or protest anymore. That's not me. And I've known what I want for some time, so what's the use?

Besides, I gave up my grip on dignity yesterday.

Still, there is one more question I need answered. "Why?"

"What?" He blinks.

"You disliked me…so what's different now?" I add, "And it better not be because I'm one of the only girls out here."

Gale exhales slowly, crimping his hair between his fingers. Then he starts to tell me, a little awkwardly, about the slow shift in his perception of me. How he's beginning to understand what I'm really like, rather than what he assumed he knew. And that what he sees is someone he admires. From surviving in the wilderness, to doing my little best for the rebellion. And the care I've showed for his family. "You've bewitched them, somehow. And, well, I guess I can't blame them." Then he says something about my hair that makes me blush. When I try to cover my face, he stops my hands and says a few other things about the kiss that make me feel dizzy and a bit doubtful that we're talking about the same event.

And then he says. "Look, you and I have a chance to create a future for ourselves, despite everything that's happened to the district, our families and friends. The future's going to be a challenge for each of us, at best. I'd like to know that I'm going into it with someone who can take the haul. I'd like for us to try."

I try for a wry twist of the lips, but it feels more like a watery grin. "Well, despite the fact that you _are_ a blockhead when it comes to these things," Gale's heavy eyebrow arches, "and certainly not an orator. It suits me fine," I say, then step closer. "You may proceed."

And so he does, pulling me into his bandage-free arms. But not for very long before he pulls back and kneads the back of his neck. "We need to find a rock for you to stand on. You're kind of short for an Undersee."

"You have the Donners to thank for that. Think of it as a deterrent from mischief," I reply, deadpan, despite sharp stomach cartwheels. The idea of perching on a rock amuses me, though, and what promises to be an earthy relationship. I step away, but his fingers cling to my palm. "So…wilderness dating. Does that mean we'll find a shrub to sit under on a Saturday night? Share a charred squirrel with a side of fried tubers? Pond water punch? That's romantic."

He cringes and mutters something about merchant girls.

"Also, I should let you know that I'm not allowed to date without a chaperone," I continue, glancing around at the trees without really seeing them. "I think my dad always assumed Hanna would come with, but since she isn't here, we'll have to find a shrub big enough for Bristel to join us."

"Not bloody likely," he growls.

"Why not?" I ask. "He's one of your best friends. I like him."

Gales gives me a look of long suffering. "Trust me. Three's too crowded."

"If you say so," I shrug. "You have more experience with this than I do."

His head snaps back. "What?"

I blush and bite my lip. "Well, when you and Katniss were together…"

"Madge," he says quietly. "Katniss and I were never together. Not really."

"But you kissed her…" I gape.

Gale grimaces. "How do you know?"

"Well." I shrug. "I just assumed. Um. Because you seemed to know what you were doing yesterday."

"I only ever kissed Katniss once." He looks sullenly down at our hands. "It wasn't like…yesterday."

"Oh."

Then his face sharpens into a smirk. "I'm just a natural, I guess."

"Ugh!" I throw his hands away, but he grabs mine back pretty quick. The bully.

He tries to look innocent, but his lip twitches. "Not that there isn't room for improvement."

"Maybe some other time," I grouse, extricating myself from his hands. "I need to wash up."

Gale crosses his arms. "Actually, if you want, I thought I'd teach you to swim today. Then we can check the fish line again."

I balk. "Well, I don't know…maybe I should stay with Prim."

"Maybe," he says, but he doesn't look happy about it. "But she's got Mrs. E and my mom."

Mrs. Everdeen…not sure I want to spend the day with her. Maybe I should tell Gale about that situation? No. One thing at a time. Focus on being a couple, and then we can tackle any bruised feelings.

Still…swimming…there's one problem that I can't overlook. Okay, two actually. I pull at the hem of my – Rory's – shirt. "Gale, I only have this one outfit…and I don't know if getting it all wet is such a good idea."

He begins to reply, but I cut him off. I may as well tell him. "Also, I'm terrified."

"Madge, you escaped from a firebombing, for one. This is child's play in comparison. And two," he says with a smirk. "Vick will save you, should anything go wrong."

"Don't be cruel," I say reprovingly. "Vick is more of a gentleman than you are." Then I ruin it by laughing.

"That's true," he says. Smug. "Vick wouldn't steal a pair of Rory's recently washed shorts for you to swim in."

I pull a face. "That's disgusting."

Gale rolls his eyes. "My mom is a professional washerwoman. Filth couldn't stick to our clothes if it wanted to. Not even coal dust." He tweaks a strand of my hair. "Please?"

"My legs are gross," I try for one more.

He lets out a low whistle. "If you think a few scabs are going to put me off—"

"Fine!" I cry, too embarrassed to hear the rest of what he's going to say. "You bully."

…

I stand there, wide-eyed and frightened in a pair of Rory's clean boxer shorts and my camisole, up to my knees in water. Rory's got Posy on his shoulders a short distance away while he chases Vick around. Even Prim wandered down, though she's sitting on a branch by Bristel instead of coming in the water. I don't understand why this is so important to Gale. Unless he wants me to follow him out into the middle of the stream…so he can what? Watch up close while I drown? I wouldn't put it past him.

Well, in all honesty, I think it's because he really enjoys the freedom of being outside and he feels like he's taking care of us when he's teaching us things. However. His enthusiasm makes me feel like a nervous old woman.

"I'm having second thoughts about this," I groan.

He frowns a little. "Still scared?"

"Maybe…it's just…."I try to think of something reasonable to get out of this. "When am I ever going to need to use this in the real world? Um, I think I'm going to go see if Hazelle needs help with dinner." I begin to wade back to shore.

"Mrs. Everdeen's making dinner tonight."

Never mind, then. I gulp and turn around. He's yards away. "Gale, could you at least meet me half way?"

He cocks his head to the side. "What?"

I point to the water that's lapping high around his chest, about where my nose would be. "I'm not as tall as you."

"Oh." He grins and wades closer to the bank. "Sure."

I move slowly over the pebbly bottom in Gale's direction, trying to adjust to the chilly water, holding my camisole down as it balloons around me. When did it get so loose? My eyes pop when the water reaches just below my hips and my whole body shivers with cold.

"It helps if you just dive in and get it over with," Gale remarks, a little too knowingly for my taste.

"No thanks," I reply. "I might not resurface."

He shrugs a bit condescendingly. "Technically, you wouldn't be able to stay underwater long enough to drown yourself. Without the current helping, that is."

"Technically, a person can drown in her own bathtub," I reply with my nose in the air. The water now comes up to my ribcage and I've nearly reached him. "And this creek is a lot larger than a bathtub."

"I won't let you drown, Madge," he says. "That's the point of teaching you to swim. Then you won't have to be so afraid of the water."

"How often…"I tug the stupid shirt down. "…do you think I intend to wallow about in a river? Like I said, not one of the most useful of skills."

"How about when you're fishing?" he asks seriously, sounding the same way my father did when he tried talking me out of dropping out of school at age five.

"_But don't you want to be smart when you grow up, Madgie?" _

"_No."_

"…Or did you intend to stay in the shallows picking off minnows?"

I gaze at him through hooded eyes, frowning, feeling a lot like that five-year-old Madgie again. "I think I'll leave hunting and gathering to the experts from now on."

"That's a shame. But okay, maybe not in the river." Gale scratches the top of his head. "But someday it might save you in the bathtub."

I laugh despite my fear of the water, saying wistfully, "I hope there are bathtubs in my future. Don't roll your eyes!"

Gale's laughter rolls across the water and I try to splash him like Rory did. Most of the water ends up on me. Then my whole body goes rigid when he reaches for my waist, drawing me deeper into the stream. "It's okay. Just take a few minutes to get used to the water," he murmurs encouragingly.

My eyes are crossing. How is it that his body feels so warm when he's been in the cold water for so long? I feel a pang of jealousy. Gale feels a few degrees warmer than everything and everyone. In the meantime I'm succumbing to hypothermia, my skin is tight and covered in gooseflesh, and I'm biting my tongue so my teeth stop rattling together.

"I'm f-freezing. Doesn't this stream know it's July?"

"Madge, this creek is fed by runoff from the mountains. It's always cold."

"Hmph."

"Seriously, it helps to get your whole body wet. Just dunk beneath the surface real quick and your body will adjust to the cold water."

I shake my head.

One dark eyebrow arches in a cavalier fashion. "Trust me."

"Like I have a choice," I mutter. "I'm sort of at your mercy."

Gale purses his lips to the side. "That's true."

Something hooks behind my knees and I feel my legs lurch out from under me as my body jerks backward. Water fills me nose, mouth, and ears. I panic, thrashing my limbs to gain purchase in this fluid environment that envelopes me. Then I feel air on my face as Gale lifts me up, spluttering, flailing, and _cursing_.

He's laughing and I'm coughing up the river. My nose stings painfully and water sloshes around in my ears. He tries to set me down on my own legs but I throw my arms around his neck like a vice, hooking my legs around his waist. There is no way I'm going back into the water without somebody to hold onto. And if he wants me submerged, then he's going to have to go under, too. Then we'll see who comes up and who doesn't.

When the coughing eases, I hear Rory and Vick laughing. I turn to glare at them. Posy looks confused and a little frightened.

"Madge?" she calls.

"She's fine, Posy. Keep playing," Gale calls.

"You jerk," I croak, glaring at him through the curtain of wet hair sticking all over my face.

Gale picks the hair away with his fingers. "It's for your own good."

"_You tried to kill me." _

"Madge, you don't have to be afraid of the water."

"I'm not anymore," I snap.

He looks surprised, but says, "Good."

"I'm afraid of you _and _water. Together." I push against his chest. "I want out."

"If you want to reach the shore, you'll have to swim there." I feel him kick off the riverbed and tow me with him, deeper.

I let go. And go under. For a while. Till it feels like someone's wringing my lungs out and setting them on fire. Then I feel hands gripping my arms, drawing me upward.

"Okay, maybe this isn't a good idea," he says, white-faced, when I break the surface. His arms squeeze my waist. "Hell's teeth! You sink like lead."

I cough up some creek. "Thank you. Just what every girl wants to hear."

"I don't understand why you don't use your arms and legs," he says with a look of utter consternation, like I'm a piece of equipment with faulty pieces or something.

"Because I'm paralyzed with _fear_," I spit.

"Learn to deal with it," he admonishes or bullies. Or whatever. "Okay, let's start with your legs."

My eyes pop.

"_Kicking_."

"Oh," I mumble sheepishly.

Grudgingly, I let him tow me around while I kick the water around. I feel like a fool. Posy can maneuver the creek better than I can. Eventually he shows my how to paddle and it takes several false starts before I can figure out how to coordinate my arms and my legs. But the whole time I feel the pressure of the water around my neck and chest, which are never as high above the waterline as I would like. The effort of my arms and legs doesn't support the weight of my body. It's exhausting. I hate the feeling of not having something firm beneath me.

The kids leave long before we do because Gale can't quite understand why I'm not picking up on this, and he's obsessed with perfecting my coordination. In the end, I'm wet, grumpy, and not as good at drowning, yet not much improved in swimming. It doesn't help that Rory's shorts threaten to come off at any moment, and my camisole keeps riding up. Modest.

None-too-soon, my feet touch bottom for the last time. "Gale, I'm done," I say, wringing the moisture out of my hair.

"You're still not very consistent," he says, blinking water out of his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I don't care," I reply, making a beeline for the shore. "Let Vick save me if he wants." Then I throw in, "Or Bristel, for that matter," just to twit him.

When the water's only to my knees I feel Gale's arms wrap around my waist and legs, scooping me out of the water. Whoa.

"What are you going to do when Vick's not around?" he says with an impish grin on his face.

I grab his neck in a choke hold. "Don't you dare throw me!"

"Huh. I wonder where Bristel ran off to?"

_"Gale!"_

"No? Off you go, then." He lets me down and I wade back to shore out of his reach, until we get to the bush where our dry clothes are hanging.

Gale lies down on the bank to dry off and pulls me with him. Cupping my face, he kisses the water droplets away. I wrap my arms around him, and he freezes when my fingers brush over the uneven ridges on his bare back. It's not that I haven't seen the scars since the whipping happened, but I can tell by the way he's holding his breath that physical contact with them makes him uncomfortable. But instead of withdrawing, I trace the jigsaw patterns until his breathing returns to normal. Well. Normalish. Considering there are hands and lips between us.

Gale's kisses are innocent enough and come to an end. We stretch out in the warm sun and don't really say much. It's not long before we're both dozing off. I turn on my side, facing away, his arm draped over my hip. I smile to myself. He certainly doesn't do things in halves. Now that he's made a decision, there's no hesitation in his behavior toward me. No easing into the relationship. I don't mind. It's not like I'm going to look any more, anyway. I'm not like those girls in Twelve who kept strings of young men at their beck and call, never preferring one over the other. Constantly in a cycle of who's next, and what's new? And I've wanted him for so long, I guess this doesn't seem as sudden as it is.

Still. It's a bit surreal. Gale is finally mine. A year ago I never would have thought I'd be lying next to him while his thumb draws lazy circles on my hip. Or kissing him.

Or, heck, talking about more than the high price of strawberries?

Soon my mind is buzzing and I need to get up. He looks peaceful, younger. I don't want to disturb him, so I lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead – how strange it is that I can do that! – and slip his arm off.

Hunger pangs remind me of the neglected fishing line, which needs checking. If I do it while Gale sleeps, then we'll be that much closer to dinner. I grab Rory's flannel shirt, folded next to Gale's extra clothing, quiver, and tackle box, and walk barefoot along the creek.

My shirt and drawers stick uncomfortably, but there's no sense in changing till the fishing's done. I feel odd walking around in boy's boxers, wondering what my parents would think. And I wasn't exactly joking about the chaperone thing. Oh well. Dad trusted Gale enough to get me out of Twelve, I doubt he'd complain too much now, especially since he can't watch over me himself.

A familiar clump of willows marks the spot where Gale rigged the line. I can see my spear standing above the waterline, just outside of the shadow of the trees. Leaving my things on the shore, I wade out. The soreness that's already settling into my poor arms and legs increases with the feel of the tension in the line and its promise of a catch. As I pull it in, the drag grows until I imagine the hugest fish in the world must be at the end.

It isn't, but it's the largest fish I've ever had to handle on my own. Hmm. River fish _do_ have teeth. Ew. And there's the problem of getting them off the hook that I hadn't considered.

Behind me, someone rustles in the thicket.

"Gale, you need to show me how to remove the hooks," I say without turning.

"Well. Hello, darlin'."

I drop the line.

* * *

TBC

_*cruel chuckle* Thanks for reading! _


	13. Chapter 12

**Warning: Chapter rated M for thematic elements. Rape does NOT occur, but sensitive readers should be advised. On a serious note, please don't use this story as a reference should you ever find yourself in a similar situation. I don't think Madge's mode of self-defense would work in the real world. However, self-defense classes are easy to find and affordable. So is mace. _And no means no_. Even if your attacker doesn't respect that, the law does.**

**AN:** As per last chapter: Ok. So, technically G/K have kissed twice. But for all intents and purposes, Gale was not cognizant when the second one occurred, so it doesn't count, and medea!Gale doesn't remember. Tch.

Also, sorry about the delay, especially after a cruel cliffhanger. I think my brain finally got to the _hey, we've been doing an awful lot of this lately_ point, and it went on vacation.

Also, I think I put a poll up on my profile. But I'm not sure. It's basically asking which ship you'd like to see me write after Redux is through. No promises, though. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 12**

_Madge's POV_**  
**

I drop the line.

_Nonono_.

The muscles in my shoulders bunch painfully at the sound of that particular voice. My stomach churns. For a moment I can only stare across the creek, to the bank on the other side. The safe side.

With halting steps, I turn around, right into the line of those narrow gray eyes. Long strands of black, bristling hair hang down over them, drawing attention to a familiar leering grin.

"You…" I choke.

Liquor ignores my stammering and fixates on my face, trailing brazenly downward to my thighs. The rest of my legs are submerged in the stream, safe from his line of sight. His own legs, revealed through ragged patches of missing cloth, show angry red welts – the kind I would still have, but for Mrs. Everdeen's salve. They cover his neck, arms, and hands. And I can imagine that they cover other things, as well, if my trap worked.

I swiftly look around, afraid that Water lies concealed somewhere, and that I'm stuck between them like a bear trap. "Where's your f-friend?" I manage to gasp.

Liquor's lips curl, revealing dirty teeth. "Dead. Snake bit."

My lips twitch. _What goes around comes around, you bastards_. Then I ask a mite more confidently. "And the other girls?"

He just shrugs, sizing me up. I do the same. The stranger is the worst for wear, but I can still sense the threatening hulk lurking underneath the wasted appearance. Whatever he and his partner were able to accomplish before in terms of food and survival in the wild, clearly he has fallen on some hard times in the recent past.

Then the image of my once-skin-tight camisole ballooning around me earlier in the creek reminds me that I'm not exactly up to snuff anymore, either.

_Stupid girl. Why did you wander off by yourself? _A traitorous voice screeches inside my head.

_How could I have known he'd show up? _a plaintive voice counters.

_Well, he's here now. Talk. Negotiate_, I tell myself. _Buy some time. _

First, I must get out of the water. I know I can't make it to the other side of the creek. In fact, Liquor would stand a much better chance in this environment than me, with his height and strength. On land, my slight build will be an advantage for running through the thicket, unlike his bulky frame. Maybe.

I curse under my breath. Just shifting my weight from one leg to the other causes my calves to cramp. How will learning to swim save my life if it leaves me _crippled_?

Liquor notices me glancing around and asks, "You've been alone all this time?"

I lift my chin defiantly. "No. I'm with friends."

Maybe that was the wrong answer, judging by the look of cunning that sharpens his features.

"Too bad. I'd hate to be interrupted." His hand inches toward a cargo pocket on his pants, which he pats, and I can guess that whatever's in there is meant for anyone planning to interfere with his plans for me. "Especially when I didn't think I'd get a second chance with you." His grin is positively revolting. "I guess it's my lucky day."

My eyes widen and I'm sure they reveal every ounce of my fear. "Um, I'd like to talk to you about s-something," I stammer.

Liquor arches an eyebrow. "Come here, then," he replies with a sneer.

Who am I kidding? The creek is no ally, but in no way will I deliver myself into his filthy arms.

I cross my arms over my chest, staying where I am. "I want to know your real name. Who are you?"

Liquor takes a step toward the water. "Why? What difference does it make?" He is amused.

_Why? I don't know why!_ It is so difficult to think with blood coursing through my body at this unnatural speed, making me lightheaded.

"Just tell me." Then I confess, "I've been calling you Liquor."

"Liquor, huh?" He guffaws, then pulls out the beaten up hip flask out of a pocket. "You didn't appreciate my assistance that morning, did you." He puts it away, and says genially, "Well, friends call me Sidler."

"I'll stick with Liquor, then," I sniff.

"Suit yourself, darlin'."

He takes another step, but so do I – away from him. "Where are you from?"

"Same as you." He grins impertinently. I shudder at the thought of sharing anything in common with him.

So I say, "I didn't recognize your face."

"You wouldn't." The way his eyes slide over my frame again makes me feel naked. They linger on my hair, perhaps the most physical, and obvious, indicator of our social differences. "Girls like you wouldn't spend much time on my side of town."

"The Seam?"

Liquor's lips curl. "Sure." His next steps bring him to the water, not four feet away from where I stand in the shallows. The conviviality melts from his face, revealing the man who stalked me in the woods and slavered over me while I wove a web of deception around his body. He says, "I made a promise to you, darling. You remember."

I swallow against a tremor running through my body. "Yes, I remember."

You never forget the words of a man who promises to kill you. Especially when he means it.

I also remember the shuddering feel of his spear cracking against his skull after I hit him with it. Then running for what felt like ages, while my sides knitted painfully and my head ached from the blood pounding through my veins. I ran till I threw up. Then I ran some more until I knew he wasn't behind me anymore. Then the trees fell away into a meadow. I crawled until my hands connected with the trunk of a tree. And I slept, dreaming that Liquor's hands were about to squeeze around my neck.

But they weren't Liquor's hands. They were Gale's.

_Where are you? _I silently plead. Still sleeping by the creek more than a mile upstream? Would he be able to hear me if I screamed? Or would that make it worse if Liquor thought someone was coming?

Gale will wake up. I hope.

"Come without a fuss and I'll make sure it doesn't hurt too much."

"No," I say, while backing away. "Leave me alone."

He doesn't leave me alone. He moves impossibly fast in the water - faster than last time I faced him. His grasping hands yank me into his clutches. But he steps on something that upsets his balance, a loose stone maybe, just enough that when I throw my weight against him, he careens to the side. The fish line tangles around him and I make a break for the shore. Then I can run to Gale and he'll –

Something catches my leg and I pitch forward with a cry, only to receive a mouthful of water. I push off the creek bed, and the water only comes up to my elbows. I try to scramble forward but Liquor's meaty fist encloses my ankle and yanks me back toward him. Twisting onto my back, I kick out with my free leg, but he catches that too. I keep struggling against him, pulling away from him, trying my hardest to stay upright.

"You're making this harder than it has to be, girl," he says, hunching over me. His voice sounds so reasonable, like I'm an irrational child displeasing a doting parent. Forcing _his_ hand. "You should have listened."

In a flash, I feel his hand around my neck, forcing me under the water. I flail, but his arm is too strong, trapping me. My lungs burn. Then I'm lifted up, coughing, but his hand still cinches around my neck, restricting my breathing.

"I'll do that again if you don't cooperate," he threatens. "No more games."

I spit in his face.

Liquor responds by grabbing my camisole, jerking me to himself. The water shatters into myriad ripples from the movement. _My god, he's really going to do it. Right here in the creek._ My bones seem to liquefy with the realization, and I squeeze my eyes shut against what's going to come. I think I'm going to throw up.

"No…_please_," I manage to croak despite the retching in my throat.

"You're done." A low, menacing voice, like an unexpected frost, manages to undercut the noise of our struggle.

My eyes fly open, and I gasp at the surprised expression on Liquor's face. It takes me a moment to register that he didn't speak. That the words weren't meant for me. Then a shiver runs through my body as a chill descends the thicket surrounding the creek.

And I can't help it – I smile. Triumphantly. Right in Liquor's face.

"Wha…?" Liquor begins to say as his eyes pin on someone behind us. Despite the fact that it's probably a bad idea to allow myself the distraction, I can't help twisting around to see _him_. And then my breath catches in my throat.

Half-concealed in shadows, Gale stands twenty feet away with every line of his body held taut as the wires in my old piano. He didn't bother to put his shirt back on, revealing hard, lean muscle from his shoulders down to where his trousers hang low over his hips. His eyes are cold as stone beneath his black eyebrows, belying the white-hot rage I can sense in the sharp line of his mouth and the way his nostrils flare. With his bow in hand, he holds the arrow ready, trained on Liquor. He won't look at me.

I am terrified of this Gale. Not in the same way that I fear Liquor – who wants to hurt me – but I've never seen him so intense. He looks so fierce, that only the pale patch encircling his arm, where the bandages protected his wounds and blocked the sun, reminds me that he is vulnerable.

"Get up," he growls. When Liquor fails to respond, Gale strides forward a few feet. "Go on. _Move_."

"You aren't going to use that thing," Liquor sneers, although his face looks pale.

Gale's lips curl. "Get out of here before I have to."

Liquor's affable façade returns. "I wasn't doing anything wrong, friend."

My head snaps back to gape at Liquor. His denial leaves me breathless. It's worse than gall…it's…it's?

"Madge, is he a friend of yours?"

"No." I shudder, both from the idea and from the grim menace in Gale's voice.

The wood of his bow creaks as he pulls the string back. "Did you agree to this?"

"_No_," I reply, trying not to sound so tearful. _Why would he think that?_

"Just making sure," he murmurs for the first time in a voice that's remotely reassuring. Then he snarls for Liquor's benefit, _"Before I kill him."_

Gale pulls the string back further.

"I wouldn't do that," Liquor jibes. He lowers himself deeper in the water, simultaneously pulling me into his chest. Shielding himself from Gale's arrow. Then I feel him press against my thigh, and he moans tauntingly, even though he really isn't doing what he's making it sound like he's doing.

Still, my body goes rigid, because I know he will soon be doing _something_. He has Gale backed into a corner, unable to tolerate what's happening and unable to shoot.

Liquor rocks against me, though making sure nothing vulnerable is exposed. With one hand he grabs my hair and smashes his lips against mine. I bat at his face with my hands, but he bites down hard on my lower lip. I cry out in pain.

Then I hear the splash of feet in the water, Gale coming toward us. Liquor releases my lip from between his teeth, and his arms crush me to his chest as he drags us both a little deeper.

"Not so fast," Liquor warns with a laugh. There's a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before. With a jolt, I realize that he's more aroused by jeering at Gale than by violating me. "Wouldn't want you to shoot the girl before I've had a chance with her."

I squirm, starting to kick, only to realize that it only moves my body against his in a way that is not conducive to my plans. Instead, I try beating on his chest.

"Cato," Gale barks.

I still. _What? Who is he talking to?_

"Reminds me of Cato," Gale continues. "This…situation."

Liquor's brows contract with the new direction the conversation is headed. "Who?"

"_Cato." _

_You are supposed to be saving me, not reminiscing! _I inwardly scream, as I resume pummeling my fists against Liquor's chest. With a stab of fear, I'm beginning to think that I'll have to save myself while Gale muses about who knows what. I catch Liquor on the chin, which causes him to growl in pain. His hand entwines itself tightly in my hair, jerking my head back while the other reaches to still my assault. But it's an awkward grip of my hands –_hands!_

Cato's hand! _Gale – you best boyfriend _ever_._

In an instant I yank my hands, which are in his grip, over my head. His precarious hold loosens enough for me to slip my hands down to rest on Liquor's wrist, where I hold on as tightly as possible – leaving his fist exposed. With his other hand tangled in my hair, he's momentarily at a loss.

It's enough.

Liquor bellows as the twang of Gale's bow echoes over the creek. He falls away from me with an arrow sticking through the bottom of his palm. As soon as I can, I scramble backwards on my hands, not bothering to stand. Before long, my hand connects with a foot. Gale's. I lean into his leg, catching my breath. He stands over me, watching Liquor cringing over his injured wrist.

Gale draws another arrow, and Liquor decides he's hand enough. With the arrow still protruding from his skin, he tries to hobble downstream. Gale hauls me to my feet, dragging me out of the creek, into the cover of a willow. He lets go of my arm, and for a second he just hovers over me, wide eyed, while I drip on his feet.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, in a voice husky with emotion.

My throat constricts, so I shake my head.

He exhales, and puts the arrow back in his quiver. "Well then…"

A twig snaps.

"_Gale!"_

He spins around just in time to block Liquor's knife, aimed to strike him beneath the ribs. Liquor pushes against Gale's arm and for a moment, they are at a physical impasse. In comparison, Gale is twice as lean, but there's health in his bones and muscles. Unlike Liquor, whose loose skin flaps with each movement. Still, he's no feather.

"Madge, get out of here," Gale orders.

I try, but my arms and legs won't respond.

He drops his bow so that he can grip Liquor's right wrist, trying to squeeze the weapon out of the man's hand. Liquor struggles against him, but slowly Gale forces him to lose ground. Then Liquor shoves his left hand, the arrow gone, in Gale's face, leaving a pulpy streak of blood from his forehead to his chin. It distracts Gale enough that Liquor is able to knock him down.

Gale's leg shoots out, hooking Liquor's ankle. Now they are both down.

I can't see the knife in the midst of the scuffle. Their arms and legs tangle as they roll about on the pebbly bank trying to dominate the other. Then something silver flashes in the sunlight, and I hear Gale cry out.

It's all I need to gain the use of my limbs. _I will not let him hurt Gale._

I grab Gale's bow, but the quiver is on his back getting smashed up while they wrestle. Besides, I don't think I could use it. Instead, I grab a stone.

Liquor has Gale pinned to the ground, but with his injury, can't hold him down as well as stick him with the knife. Struggling, he hardly notices me approach. My eyes lock with Gale's for a moment before I raise the stone over my head and bring it smashing down near Liquor's temple. He totters, but I have to hit him again.

But his elbow flies out, connecting with my stomach, and I fall backward, landing on my behind like a rag doll. My lungs can't drag in any air for what feels like forever.

Luckily, between getting brained and dealing with me, Gale has managed to use the distraction to buck Liquor off. He rolls to his knees, just in time to avoid another swipe from Liquor's knife.

"_Madge. My bow." _

First, I throw the stone and it catches Liquor on the chest. I aimed for his nose. He instinctively reaches for it with his free hand – the bloody one. Then I pass Gale the bow, and in the precious seconds I've given him, Gale rises with a fresh arrow nocked. In a blink it's lodged in Liquor's throat. The man blinks in confusion for a moment at the colorful fletching protruding from his body before he collapses, gurgling, into the shallows.

I look away, unable to watch him die.

Gale watches every second of it. His chest pumps with the effort of breathing. We face away from each other. "We'll have to work on your aim," he gasps.

I glare and then laugh a little. "That was brilliant, by the way."

"Hmm?"

"The Games. Shooting Cato in the hands. And letting me know what to do without actually telling me."

He sighs. "I was afraid you weren't going to get it."

We sit in silence for a minute or two. All I hear is the two of us breathing. We must have scared the birds away.

"Is it over?" I ask.

"Yes, he's dead."

I turn to look. "Gale, you're bleeding!" I gasp.

"It's his," he replies flatly.

"Not all of it," I cry. The scabs over his arm were torn away during their tussle on the ground, and there's a long, thin cut running diagonally from the right side of his rib cage to the breast bone. And shallow scrapes all over.

After grabbing my clothes, I haul Gale away. He stares stupidly at the creek, all the while I'm pulling him up the bank, deeper into the thicket.

Just as we come to the meadow, he digs his heels in like he can't stand the sunlight. He stands beneath the gold tendrils of a willow, rubbing his eyes.

"Gale?"

"I killed him," he says in a small voice. Or perhaps it only sounds small compared to the fury it contained only a minute ago. His eyes scan the area for nothing in particular. Then they rest on me. "I was wrong," he confesses, though I don't know why. "It is different."

"What is?" I ask.

"From hunting animals…I told Katniss differently once." Gale's face is ashen pale.

Dropping Rory's shirt, I grab his face with both my hands. "You didn't have a choice."

Gale nods but he isn't looking at me. "He would have touched you, and then he would have killed you," he murmurs in a dream-like voice.

"Yes," I say.

"Madge, I'm sorry." He looks at me finally, and backs away, dropping his bow. "I'm going to be sick."

I follow him and wait for the retching to stop. I kneel beside him, running my fingers soothingly over the back of his head, down his neck and shoulders until the tremors stop. For some reason, seeing him like this makes me forget my own need to vomit. I even go back to the creek to scoop up some water for him, though it means seeing Liquor's…Sidler's body bobbing there. I go upstream to get the water.

When I return to the willow, Gale is wiping his mouth clean. His hand gently grips my wrist while he drinks straight from my cupped hands, rinsing out the filth in his mouth. I try to wipe away Liquor's blood from his face, but it doesn't help much.

He absently runs a finger along the cut on his chest. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I murmur. "But really, I should be thanking you."

Gale pulls me down beside him. I protest because of his injuries – Mrs. Everdeen really needs to take care of those – but his hands cup my face. "You're okay?" His thumb gently traces my swollen bottom lip. The bruise will show up hours later, but it hurts _now_. "He didn't hurt you worse than this?"

_Depends on what kind of hurt you mean._ I flinch away from Gale as all the emotions of the last few minutes come rushing back, then pinch myself on the arm for being stupid. This is Gale. I can trust him now. But he seems to sense my confusion, and scoots away a little to give me space.

I'm torn between the desire to hide in his arms and crawl out of my own skin, reject my body completely.

"Let's get away from here," he finally says. He rises to his feet, refusing my help, though I can see it hurts him.

And I know it must be bad, because he has forgotten his bow. I scoop it up with the shirt and follow behind a step or two. "Should I come back for the fish later?" I ask. That's why I came down here in the first place. "I don't think the line was completely destroyed."

"Forget about that," he tells me, taking my hand. "We should get back to camp. Who knows who else is out here? Nobody's allowed to wander around alone from now on."

I swallow. "Liquor…Sidler came alone. His friend—"

"Who?" Gale's eyes hone in on me.

"Sidler." I duck my head. "That's his name."

"You took the time to find out his name?" Gale drawls, taking the bow from me and fitting it into the quiver. "Got to know each other pretty well, did you?"

I cringe at the sarcasm. "Well – I tried to stall for time, hoping you would come. And you did. I wasn't being _stupid_." I take a deep breath. "Besides, he…he's one of the strangers I told you about…that I didn't like."

Gale stops abruptly and I stumble into him.

He drops my hand. Now that the first wave of emotion is wearing off, I can see something else smoldering behind his eyes. And not in a good way. Directed at me.

"You knew that guy?" His eyes blaze with sudden intensity. _Why is he acting this way?_ "You didn't mention that you were traveling with a pair of _rapists_."

I gape.

His voice sharpens. "_Madge." _

"They weren't r-rapists exactly," I stammer, remembering Aster's smug face. "Not until my turn, anyway."

"_Your turn?!"_ Gale splutters a torrent of curse words. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Why are you mad at _me_?" Feeling angry and intimidated, my voice trebles in pitch. "I didn't tell you because I hardly knew you before! Did you think I'd confide in you about a potential…situation?" I fight the urge to jab him in the chest. "That's private, and I don't like thinking about it…" my voice trails off, but he knows what I mean. "Besides, I-I got out of it...he didn't ever…"

"You could have told my mom or Mrs. Everdeen if you didn't feel comfortable telling me," he accuses. I don't have an answer for that, so I watch him clutch the hair on his head while he processes. "My god. He even had the same rash." He cocks his head to the side as he makes connections. "The poison ivy…on purpose. You did that to…?"

I nod curtly.

His eyes are wild. "That's why you slapped me the other day, because of something he said, isn't it?" I've never seen anyone turn white with rage, but Gale does. It's frightening. Especially when he grabs my arms. He shouts, "You have to start telling me things, Madge. How else am I supposed to protect you?"

The back of my eyes burn and I pull out of his grasp. "I didn't know he'd find me again!" I cry. "What were the odds?" My lip trembles awfully, and I have to bite down on it to keep from crying. "Why are _you_ mad?"

It's his glare against mine.

Gale relents, tries to pull me to him, but I stand stiff and unyielding, hugging Rory's shirt to my chest. My eyes close tightly against everything that's happening.

"Madge?" His voice cracks. It reminds me of the way Vick talks in his sleep when he's having nightmares about the firebombing. "Come here. I'm sorry for shouting." I let Gale wrap his arms around me. My forehead rests against his shoulder.

He murmurs into my hair as he regains control of his voice, "I just prefer to know when something's coming at me."

"You're always shouting at me," I sob plaintively, like a five-year-old. "Like you think everything is my fault."

Gale tips my chin up to look at him. "I don't blame you for that pig. I guess…I guess I don't deal with feeling scared very well," he says humbly.

"No," I sniffle. "You don't."

"It's hard not to feel like I'm in control of a situation, especially when it means someone I care about is being hurt. I'll try not to yell anymore." His lips press against my forehead. And instead of feeling repulsed after Liquor's violation, I feel soothed. "Okay?"

"Okay," I whisper. My eyes close and I bask in feeling safe in his arms.

Gale gently pushes me away long before I'm ready to let go, brushing a tear away from my cheek with his thumb.

"Hey," I softly protest.

"Sorry, Madge," he murmurs. "I'm bleeding on you."

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading! _

_Special thanks to Ceylon for comments and beta. And to Geeky_DMHG_Fan for letting me bounce bad ideas off her brain – even if they didn't show up in this chapter. Oh, and for pictures of hunky men (especially for Carrot Top). I hope your blood lust has been sated. _


	14. Chapter 13

**AN: **Thanks for participating in the poll! And a few of you asked if this means _Redux_ is almost over. Well, not really. We're definitely more than halfway there, but I don't have a specific number of chapters left. I can tell you that the story doesn't end until after they've reached D13.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

_Gale's POV_

For the first time I get a really good look at my wounded arm while it's wrapped around Madge's shoulders. For a second or two, I contemplate ignoring it to prolong the peaceful mood. But I think better of it and drop my arms. A tear trickles down Madge's cheek as I step backward. I brush it away.

"Hey," she murmurs sleepily. It's been a long, frightening, exhausting day.

"Sorry, Madge. I'm bleeding on you."

Her eyes widen. "Oh! I forgot. I'm sorry!"

"What are you sorry for? _I'm_ making a mess on _you_." The cut on my chest isn't deep, just stings a lot. But my arm is another story. The kind that drips. Madge wads Rory's shirt in her hands like she's going to staunch the blood with it, but I grab her wrists. "Don't. You should put that back on."

"But, Gale," she protests.

"You don't have a lot of clothes to begin with. I'd hate to see you ruin your shirt." Madge's wet undershirt gapes open a mite, but I don't tell her that because she embarrasses so easily. I avert my eyes instead and drape the flannel around her shoulders, letting her do the rest.

"It's not a long way back…." and then I pause. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go back, or to explain what just occurred. I feel a fresh stab of guilt for yelling at Madge, because I'm starting to understand her reluctance to talk about certain subjects. "You go. I'll be there in a minute."

Madge pales. "I don't want to go alone." Even with that piece of baggage gone, her eyes still show fear. Sure they would, and I don't blame her for not wanting to walk back by herself. But I've got a fear of my own.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell my family," I confess. "I need a moment."

To come to terms.

Her fingers brush my arm. "But it wasn't your fault. Remember?"

"At the moment, it felt like the only choice I had." I pause while my hand skims over the stubble on my jaw. "But how to tell my mother I killed someone…"

"Gale, you let him go once, and he came back with a knife. He attacked _you_," she says. "From a lawful standpoint, you acted in self-defense."

"I guess." I grimace.

Madge steps closer. "And you did it for me, didn't you?"

"Of course." Which, I guess means I can do this for her, as well.

"Come on, then."

She grips my elbow, leading me through the long grass until we see the outline of our camp.

"What happened?" Mom cries when we approach. So much for easing into our return.

Our family sits in a circle, eating off of snap tins. Dry, clean, everything Madge and I are not.

"Were you two wrestling in the grass?" Bristel quips. "Looks like fun."

My nostrils flare as the muscles in my body tighten. I'm really tired of his _jokes_. Can't he see that something serious just happened? I already feel like hitting something, and Bristel's making himself an easy target…

I feel someone squeeze my hand. My train of thought cuts off abruptly as I look down at it. Madge's two hands form a vice around one of mine. She's biting her lip like she's anticipating an explosion.

Huh…I can't remember what I'm angry about. I stare blankly back at my friend.

"I don't really know what you're thinking, Bristel, but I didn't do that to Gale's arm…or his chest," says Madge. She's trying to make it sound like a joke, but I hear the waver in her voice.

"Gale?" Mom touches my right arm. "You two look terrible. What happened?"

"We ran into someone," I mutter, brushing her away.

"Who?" Rory and Vick ask at the same time.

I lock eyes with Madge, trying to judge which of us should tell the story. She opens her mouth, then cringes, struggling to make a decision about how much to tell my mother about Sidler. Does she bring up the awful subject of my first kill, does she expose her secret?

She swallows. "A man I traveled with found me alone by the creek. He attacked me and then Gale came." She takes a deep breath before continuing. "I guess he's the reason why I decided to go on my own before you found me the other day."

"Oh, Madge." Mom almost squeezes her to death in a bear hug. "Why didn't you tell us before?"

Her reply is muffled against my mother's shoulder.

"So what happened to the creep?" Bristel asks me, taking the attention away from Madge, who's weepy again. He looks me hard in the eyes. Tightening my jaw, I subtly cut the air with my fingers. In conjunction with my wounds, this indicates the outcome pretty clearly.

Bristel and Rory exchange glances. "Well, I guess that settles it, then," Bristel drawls.

Mrs. E eases past both of them with her healer's satchel. Her shoulders droop. "Your arm healed so nicely," she sighs.

"Sorry," I mutter.

She glances at Madge. "I don't suppose it could be helped."

"No, not really," I reply for Madge.

"Knife?" Mrs. E points at the cut on my chest.

"Yeah."

"Well, knife wounds heal easier than your nicely mangled arm will," she sighs again. "Go sit by that log over there and let me have a better look." She turns to Madge when I hesitate. "You're not hurt?"

"No."

Mrs. E appraises her, taking in the golden tangles and dripping, stained underclothes. "You'd better clean up and get some proper clothes back on."

Madge blinks at the woman's abrasive tone, then gives me a helpless look. I shrug, not knowing what the problem is, except that Mrs. E's behaving a little more sour than usual. After all, Madge does need to clean up, whether or not she's reluctant to go without me. I hand her my bow and quiver.

"Mind putting those away for me while you're at it?" I ask, placing them in her hands.

"Sure," she mumbles, but she doesn't move.

"Maybe you should get something to eat?" I gesture toward the campfire.

Madge looks over her shoulder. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Come along, Madge." Mom wraps an arm around her waist. "Let me see if I can wash the blood out of your undershirt. There's a certain trick I learned back home. Miners always get blood on their clothes doing the stupidest things…"

Madge walks away with my mom while I follow Mrs. E to the log she mentioned. But I keep looking back. There's a stiffness in Madge's gait that hasn't been there for days. Maybe she didn't realize how hard it would be to find ourselves surrounded by everyone after what just occurred, or maybe she tried to ignore it because I'm bleeding?

I don't know. But I can tell she's afraid and feeling uncertain as she slowly drifts away toward the packs. She even jumps when Posy calls her name. I catch Mom's eyes, and nod my head in Madge's direction. Thankfully, she gets it and keeps Madge under her wing.

"Sit down," Mrs. Everdeen orders, throwing down a blanket. I obey without thinking, stretching my legs out and reclining on my good arm. Or my better arm. That Sidler guy had heavy fists. My mind flies back to Madge and the memory of his hands on her, and the first sight of him forcing her under the water. I must have moved, because Mrs. Everdeen clamps her sensitive, healer hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into a sitting position.

"Relax."

Then a hiss escapes my lips as invisible liquid needles prick all over the gash on my chest.

Mrs. E looks up questioningly. I stopped paying attention to her and didn't notice her cleaning me up. Then I see the small piece of cotton in her hand, and the sharp smell of disinfectant, which will always remind me of the days I spent in the Everdeen kitchen, stings my nose.

"Sorry. Sort of hurts," I mumble more to myself than to her.

"It will," is all she says as she winds a thin gauze strip around my chest.

"Too bad all your neat work went to waste," I say by way of apology when she begins on my arm.

Mrs. E looks sorrowfully at the torn skin. "I'll stitch them this time. Who knows what new trouble you'll get into before we reach civilization?"

Stitches. My lips compress into a thin line as I anticipate that particular pleasure. "Great."

"I can give you something for the pain, if you like. But it'll knock you out." She glances up quickly, then over to her satchel. Without even seeing the clear vials, I know which ones she means.

No way. I don't want any more of that stuff. It makes me feel foggy for hours after I wake up. Besides, that seems like an extreme painkiller for something like stitches. I don't get why Mrs. Everdeen bothered offering.

"I'll live."

"You're like Katniss," she tells me. We both pause like we've been shocked by the sound of her daughter's name, which hasn't been mentioned between the two of us since our last night in Twelve. She's the suffer in silence type. Usually.

She continues awkwardly, "You both pretend to feel less pain than you do."

I stare. "It's just a few stitches. How bad can it be in comparison?" _to a back beaten to ribbons…_

Mrs. Everdeen shakes her head, then rubs more disinfectant on my arm. I choke down a yelp.

"You know," she muses, breaking her characteristic silence during treatment. There's an edge in her voice that doesn't quite match the reminiscent subject. "I've never seen Katniss so protective of anyone than the day they brought you to us on that plank of wood."

At first her words do something funny to my gut. In a good way, like a series of flips. But then an unwanted reflection comes to mind that squeezes the happiness out of it, leaving me feeling empty. I've seen Katniss protective of someone else.

"Sure you have. Lots of times," I reply, remembering footage of Katniss pounding on windowed doors after she won the first Games, or trying to take on that victor from Four over Mellark's body. Or, really, every time the baker's kid so much as closed his eyes, she'd be up in arms on _his_ behalf. Just to name a few instances. It's a reflex for her – certainly not a guarantee of affection, as I've had the disappointment to learn.

Mrs. Everdeen somehow knows what's going on in my mind. "She did it for the camera, Gale."

I shake my head, though I want to believe her. I used to believe that her relationship with Peeta was scripted, at my most foolish times. So I reply, "I don't think so."

The lines around her mouth splay outward as she frowns. "Katniss stayed up with you all night. In fact, the whole time you were with us, she wouldn't eat or sleep if we didn't make her."

"I know." Friends do stuff like that.

"Do you?" Mrs. Everdeen counters, not quite looking at me. "I know the Games strained your relationship with her. Peeta Mellark didn't help, either, but—"

"Didn't help?" I scowl. "He _ruined_ it."

"But Katniss loved you."

"Not the way I loved her."

"She might have." Mrs. Everdeen looks pointedly in Madge's direction, indicating her daughter's replacement. "And I'm disappointed by how quickly you can forget Katniss now that she's gone."

My jaw drops. "Forget Katniss? That's not possible."

"Then how can you throw yourself at the first female of age that you see?" she cries, baiting me. "If you loved Katniss at all, you'd still—"

I'm beginning to see the woman Katniss used to talk about, the one who pulled out and grieved for a dead man while her kids starved. To her, my relationship with Madge must seem impossible according to her brand of grief.

But it's not the same – what she had with her husband is not what I had with Katniss. Mutual feelings never entered into it.

"That isn't fair. I didn't throw myself at Madge. And I have not betrayed Katniss - she knew what I felt for her. I made myself clear on that point, but she couldn't think of _me_ that way. While she lived, I still never looked at anyone else," I say, my voice cracking. I can't help it. "_I _didn't pretend to fall in love with someone else, feign an engagement or make up a child, while I tried to decide who I really cared about."

"You knew her the best," she chides. Her lips are drawn in a tight line, like she's trying to hold herself together. "So I don't have to tell you how rarely she loved _anybody."_

_Including_ _you_, my jaded conscience inserts. _If I've abandoned Katniss, at least it happened _after_ she died. _

My head droops to my chest, feeling guilty for that thought. I feel hollow, like my insides lie in a gut pile somewhere for carrion to pick at. I can think of a dozen different things to say in response, in denial, but somehow my tongue has unhinged itself. I didn't ask for any of this. Not Katniss's death, not killing a guy, and certainly _not_ for a guilt trip _to top everything off._

I stare at Mrs. Everdeen's worn face while she digs out her supply of catgut, measuring it against the amount of stitches I'll need. She lights a match to clean the curved needle. The trouble is that my arm doesn't have one nice, clean cut, but a series of small, deep and irregular gashes. Each in a different stage of healing, with a freshly damaged top layer of skin. The arm looks like a large, festering pin cushion.

Before Mrs. E makes the first stitch, I want to make one thing clear. I clasp her hand in mine. She looks up, startled.

"You and I saw the same footage on TV two weeks ago," I murmur. "I swear I haven't forgotten Katniss. But do you honestly believe that she thought of me in the arena? Mrs. Everdeen, I remember the day that picture in the locket was taken. She barely _glanced _at it. What can I do with that? But don't you ever believe that I'm done grieving for her. Just like you." Then I release her hand and hold out my arm.

Mrs. Everdeen says nothing, but her lips quiver while she bends over her supplies.

I bite down on my tongue as she starts to stitch me up. And yet, the pain helps. Sort of the way running in the woods clears my mind. The resurgent feeling of betrayal, confusion, and sadness slowly drains away. After all, Mrs. Everdeen's accusation isn't fair – but she's hurting, too.

I take stock of things while she works. The guy _is_ dead, so Madge is okay. Nothing else will happen. We'll be careful. And taking care of her means she's really mine.

So, I'm glad I killed him. The idea sucker punches me.

Because I don't know how I did it – I mean, I know _how_ I did it with the bow – but I just didn't know I had it in me. And the part of me that doesn't _know_ feels afraid of the part that's _glad_.

A shadow falls across my legs. I look up to see Bristel standing over me. "So, that visitor of yours, is he still around?"

I nod, still biting my tongue, and blink back the moisture in my eyes caused by the piercing and pulling on my skin.

Bristel crosses his arms. "Does he need to be taken care of?"

I nod again, remembering that the man's body still lies in the creek. If left there, it'll contaminate the water.

"Should I take Rory?"

"No," I grouse through gritted teeth. Mrs. E pulls another stitch.

Bristel scratches his straggly beard. "Dead guys are pretty heavy."

I try not to hiss. "Fine."

Instead of leaving, he stays standing next to me for a moment longer.

"Rory's nearly thirteen, you know. I think he can handle it." Then Bristel muses, "And I think it'd mean a lot to him if you believed he could, too. Kids his age like to be treated like men."

I nod grudgingly. I know. I felt that way too, with our dad. Then he got blown to pieces, and I got my wish. Goes to show how dumb a kid can be when he's wishing.

Bristel waves Rory over. "So, what happened exactly? Besides the guy showing up. Last we knew, you and Madge were swimming around. Sort of." He smirks.

I clamp down on my impatience, which is usually on a short fuse anyway.

Since Mrs. Everdeen has entered her zone, not paying attention to us, I try puzzling together the things she said to me earlier. The disapproval and…resentment? I don't know if I want to talk about finding some guy mauling Madge in front of Mrs. E.

My eyes seek for her yellow hair in the midst of my black-haired family. Mom holds a one-way conversation across the way, piling food onto Madge's tin. Although, Posy's eating most of it herself while she sits on Madge's lap. I don't know how she would feel about me telling everything to Bristel and Rory. In fact, she isn't even talking, just letting my mom chatter away. Silence and secrets – that's my girlfriend. It's going to be interesting. Or hair-raising.

"Well?" Rory asks.

"I'll tell you some other time," I say.

Bristel gives Rory a look that suggests _he'll_ explain later. Quite the pair, they are. I tell them where to find the clump of willows where the fish line used to be, remembering that my tackle box is still down by the creek. I'd hate to lose it, but Rory promises to bring it back. Then they disappear down the dip in the wooded bank, heading off in the direction I told them.

Mrs. Everdeen finishes the last stitch a little later, and I'm glad that Rory and Bristel distracted me most of the time. Not to mention that it gives Mrs. E less of an opportunity to talk about Katniss.

The keening sound of Posy throwing a tantrum throbs through the air, so Mom takes her for a walk. Madge scrapes some food on her tin, then wanders over. She's clean and wearing Rory's corduroys again.

Madge eyes Mrs. Everdeen cautiously. Not that it matters, because the woman gets up before Madge gets close enough to talk to.

_Huh. Has Mrs. Everdeen spoken to her as well?_ I wonder as the older woman stalks off toward the creek. The idea makes me bristle, especially if she tried making Madge feel guilty, too.

After setting the plate of food on my lap, she sits next to me, hugging her legs to her chest, and watching Mrs. Everdeen retreat. Her fingers brush over my hand. "You know, when someone holds your hand, you feel better," she murmurs with forced lightheartedness.

"So I've heard." I give her hand a squeeze. "Too bad you weren't holding mine while I got these."

Madge wrinkles her nose at the short ends of catgut poking out. She traces down my arm, alongside the tight and swollen skin.

"Looks awful," she murmurs. "Will it scar?"

"Do I need more?" I ask.

She bites her lip, then grimaces, reaching up to touch the tender area. "Ouch."

"That's a nice bruise you'll have. Anything else hurt you didn't tell Mrs. E about?" Because with Madge, there's always something else.

"My legs and back are a little scraped up from the creek bed, but nothing bad." She leans forward, lifting up the hem of the oversized shirt to show me the scrapes. Then she seems to remember herself and tugs the shirt back down like she doesn't know why she showed me in the first place.

We sit quietly while I eat leftovers. Madge's eyelids droop, so I tell her to rest her head on my lap. Somehow having her close has a calming effect on me, like when she squeezed my hand earlier. 'Course, food has a calming effect, too.

When I'm finished, I set the tin down. "Thanks for that."

Madge sits up and stretches. "Posy threw a fit when I wouldn't let her eat your lunch. I felt bad for telling her no."

"Well, it looked like she got most of yours, already. She worships you, too, so I doubt it'll matter." I wrap my arm around her waist, dragging her closer. "I'm glad you're all right."

"I'm glad _we're_ all right," she sighs. "What a strange, awful day."

"Not completely awful. I can think of a highlight." I kiss her, feeling her smile. I press my forehead gently against hers. "I guess you're done with swimming?"

She huffs. "I'm done with water. Swimming, drinking, bathing. _No more_."

I lean back so she can see my look of skepticism. "You don't care if you stop smelling like flowers or go mad from dehydration?"

"I smell like flowers no matter what," she sniffs, crossing her arms.

Not really, but I keep that to myself. I'm learning diplomacy with Madge. With Katniss, I could just say that she stank.

Speaking of. "So…Mrs. Everdeen?"

Madge groans and leans against my shoulder.

"Did she say something to you, too?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, she hasn't said anything – actually, I think she's avoiding me. I get this sense that I've hurt her feelings. Yesterday she kept staring at me like I'd…I don't know."

"Betrayed Katniss?"

Madge startles. "Yes! But that might be my own conscience."

"I don't think so. Mrs. E had some choice words for me a few minutes ago." I snatch Madge's hand, hoping for that calming effect. "But I don't understand why she'd be upset yesterday. If it's about Katniss, I didn't know that we'd be together. How would she?" Then I remember, "We still haven't told them."

"I don't know, Gale. They might already realize." Madge squirms. "Well…your mom kind of knew that you'd…that we'd…" She blushes.

My eyebrows arch. "What? That I kissed you?" I scoff, "How would she know that?"

"She's a _mom_, Gale." Madge rolls her eyes. "Hazelle said I looked like I'd been kissed. They _know_ stuff like that."

"My mom talked to you about this? What did she say?"

"Not much." Madge shrugs. "She didn't pry, just wanted to let me know that she's on to us, I guess."

"Huh. I bet she did." She's been meddling between us long before I knew it. I scratch my head, trying to remember if Madge looks a certain way after I kiss her that would give us away. Well, I guess I can find out. Leaning down, I kiss her on the least bruised side of her mouth.

She backs away instantly, with a blush that's never far from the surface. Ah, that must be what my mom saw.

Her eyes dart around the camp. "Gale, I don't think you should do that."

I stroke her cheek, feeling puzzled. "Why?" A disturbing idea makes my gut twist. If being with me makes her think of him. So I ask, "Because of that guy?"

She blanches. "No, it's not Sidler. I can tell the difference between the two of you. It's…well…I mean, Vick and Posy and Prim are right there. And your mom. We shouldn't embarrass them."

_Their_ embarrassment isn't the problem, judging by Madge's pink ears. My family isn't even paying attention. At the moment, Mom is scolding Posy, and Prim's teaching Vick to make daisy chains. I need to have a talk with that kid…

Besides, we grew up with a certain kind of conditioning. "Madge, my whole family slept in one bedroom. A _kiss_ isn't likely to embarrass them."

Her eyes widen. "Your family only had one bedroom?"

I wave my hand in an arc. "All the houses in the Seam have only one bedroom."

"I've never been to a house in the Seam," she mumbles with a grimace.

"Not even to see Katniss?"

"No," she says. "We never visited each other outside of school until after she came back from the Games. By then she lived in the Victor's Village."

"Well," I give her a wry smile, "I guess the mayor wouldn't want his daughter wandering around in the less savory parts of the district."

"Oh stop," she hisses. "That's not fair."

"That's right," I say archly. "I'm the snob."

She beats her fists against the ground in exasperation. "You _are_."

I grip her chin. "Madge, the material point is that kissing won't scandalize my family. I make no promises for Bristel, granted, but as long as you're comfortable with me kissing you after what just happened, we have no reason to worry."

"I'm not going to let Sidler spoil this," she says adamantly, pointing between us. "But don't you think we should at least tell your family first?" Her lips twitch. "And Bristel?"

"You said they already knew."

"Not formally."

Smirking, I say, "Guess they'll find out if we're obvious enough."

Mrs. Everdeen clears her throat.

Oops. Madge's incredulous eyes meet mine, each wondering how she managed to sneak up on us.

"I just need to gather my things." She opens her bag, which she left behind, and starts wrapping things neatly, making sure the needles are clean…even though she already did that earlier. Something catches Madge's eye.

"Oh, you still have some of that left?" she blurts out.

"I used it very sparingly," Mrs. E replies curtly, tucking the vial away.

I glance between them. "Used what?"

The color drains from Madge's face. Her eyes dart in my direction, then toward my mother, and back to Mrs. Everdeen. She concentrates on her hands after that.

"What is it?" I ask after Mrs. E walks away.

Madge holds a finger up. "Give me a minute…it's coming together."

All right?

Then she grins lopsidedly. It looks kind of goofy with her swollen lip, and there's a manic gleam in her eyes. "It worked."

"What did?"

"Well," she begins, "you know when you accused me of not telling you anything, and that I should? And then I said I don't know you and didn't want to and all that?"

I try to work that out, but it's kind of like an itch I can't reach. "Sounds familiar. Yeah."

Madge sits up very straight and takes a deep breath. Her blue eyes bug a little. "I'm going to tell you something voluntarily."

My heart starts pounding. Madge's confessions usually end with new world orders or dead men…but honesty…yes…great. That's what I've been saying.

"What is it?" I cringe.

She licks hers lips, stares at something over the treetops. "I brought you morphling."

Okay.

No, wait.

My eyes pop. "You brought _me_ medicine?"

"Yes." Her eyes snap back to me.

"When my, uh," I gesture toward my back with my thumb. "The expensive stuff?"

She nods encouragingly. "Last winter."

I don't think I've ever wondered who brought it.

I remember leaning against the whipping post, then waking up on my stomach. Burning. Awake or asleep, it hurt just the same. Whenever Mrs. Everdeen touched my back, I wanted to scream for her to stop. Then more burning. Blacking out. Then the pain floating away. I woke up again. Prim held a glass of water to my lips and told me it had been three days since the whipping. Then Mrs. E gave me a shot, told me it was the last one of morphling she'd give me, that they'd rely on the snow coats from now on. And that's the last I thought about it.

"I figured it belonged to the Everdeens…" And our families don't pay each other back.

"No, it belonged to my mother. She wanted you to have it." Madge purses her lips. "Honestly I don't really know why, because she'd never heard of you till that night."

Something snaps in my brain – an image of a frailer, older version of Madge standing on the stairs inside a home within a condemned district. I remember feeling nothing for her. "If I had known that…" I swallow. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Some things feel more frightening than wild dogs or even the reaping, and that's generosity. Especially when it sneaks up on you, and you find yourself beholden to the last family you never would have wanted to owe.

"If I'd told you about the morphling then you would have felt obligated to me," Madge murmurs. "I wanted you to l-love me."

We stare at each other for a moment.

Then I frown. "But I could have paid you back." I might have been more understanding.

"Ugh!" She throws her hands in the air. "With what money, Gale? Don't you understand the concept of a gift? Hazelle said you'd act this way."

"My mother?" I ask stupidly.

"We had a whole discussion about the morphling on the night you were whipped," Madge explains, clearly frustrated. "She came to thank me, but my mother didn't want reimbursement, and neither did I. And I _tried_ to convince Hazelle that we were even anyway, but no. All of a sudden you show up on my doorstep one awful night because your mother can't leave well enough alone…"

I hold my hand up. "Wait, wait, wait. My mom knew about _all_ this?" Another piece of the puzzle fits together in my mind. "That's why…that's the debt she mentioned the night of the bombing." That explains the disappointment written on her face when I refused to go at first. Hell's teeth.

I rest my forehead on my upturned palm. "So if she knew, then who else?"

"Katniss and the Everdeens, of course. Haymitch. Peeta," Madge lists their names on her fingers. "I don't know who else might have been in the house, but that's everyone who crowded around their front door."

"Katniss never told me." I feel completely puzzled. Whispering, more to myself, "Why didn't she tell me?"

_Maybe the same reason why she didn't tell me about the boy with the bread,_ I grouse in my head. Thinking of Katniss as the one keeping secrets from me, instead of the mayor's daughter, feels like a stab in the back.

Madge gives me a sad look. "A lot happened after that night, what with Thread wreaking havoc in the district. It probably slipped her mind." She shrugs. "Besides, it's not important."

I look up. "Not important? I've never experienced so much pain in my life and I never got to thank you. I should have had that chance, at least."

"Forget it," she says, then snaps her mouth shut. The words sound familiar. "I mean, we're even now. Or we were."

My brows contract. "What do you mean?"

"Well," she sighs. "You helped me that one time just before the Harvest Festival."

"I did?"

Madge's head tilts to the side. "Don't you remember those disgusting Peacekeepers?"

"Oh, them." I laugh bitterly. Well, with Katniss's recent engagement announcement, I needed a punching bag. Those idiots did me a favor, providing the excuse. "I forgot about them," I say. "They were drunk."

Then I take a good look at Madge, trying to see her from an objective, male point of view. "Hell's teeth. I'm always pulling men off of you, aren't I?"

Her jaw drops in horror. "Gale Hawthorne!"

"Sorry," I mutter, rubbing my eyes. I don't know what's gotten into me – I feel cracked all over. "That was out of line."

Madge sits silently with her ruffled feathers for a few moments before she finally says, "The point I am trying to make is that I owed you for helping me. So, you don't have to thank me for the morphling."

"Still…"

"And then you helped me escape Twelve, fed and clothed me, and you beat off Sidler. So, I'm still in your debt."

I lie down on the blanket and stare heavenward for a few moments, collecting my thoughts. "Madge, maybe we should stop keeping track. Don't you think?"

She considers this for a moment. "But..."

I brush a finger over her lips. Ideas race through my mind, connecting in new ways. "When I first met Katniss in the woods, we kept everything as even as possible – as profitable as possible. I wondered if she'd cheat me if I let my guard down." My lips turn up fondly at the memory. "Somehow that turned into friendship, but only because we stopped keeping track of what we owed the other. And her profit became my profit. Maybe that doesn't make sense, but we did much better in the woods when we were watching the other's back, and not our own."

"So what are you saying?" she whispers.

"I'm saying, who cares if we're even or beholden? Let's just agree to help each other out. Not because of rescues or food or morphling, but because that's what people do when they care about each other. " I hold out my hand for hers. "Agreed?"

Madge places her hand in mine and we shake. Her eyes shine. "Agreed."

* * *

**TBC**

_Thank you for reading!_

_Ceylon, thank you for beta and advice. Awesome! _


	15. Chapter 14

**AN: **I made an executive decision to make And So We Run a two part story. Part I, as you can see, is about their escape from Twelve. Part II will focus on their time in the Underground. And, you know, wreaking havoc on those Capitol tools.

Also, **see Quintus here** http://apricotteacup(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/Quintus-161087407. I am thrilled with this artwork! Meghan/apricotteacup is the best!

* * *

**Chapter 14**

_Madge's POV_

Nobody asked any more questions about what happened by the creek. Bristel and Rory returned late in the afternoon, grim-faced and dripping with sweat. I could guess what they'd been up to, burying the body, and it made me feel nauseous. I spent the rest of the evening before it grew dark letting Prim practice braiding my hair. It helped relax me, though less so when Posy wanted to help. Her little fingers have a mean pull. Yet, Prim somehow managed to teach her how to hold the strands of my hair gently and the little girl managed to finish one braid by herself. Posy crowed and ran around bragging to her brothers, who were indifferent, of course.

It's so different being with Prim. I like her; she can tell what I'm feeling without having to say it. She's always been empathetic and intuitive, unlike Katniss who often needs things spelled out for her. But still, she isn't Katniss, my best friend.

I feel strangely grateful as the sky fades from indigo to black. It brings solitude and concealment. I feel like everyone stared at me all day. I don't mind going to sleep. Even if my dreams are filled with Liquor, I know that when I wake up, he won't be there. I hold on to that thought to guard against fear.

The man makes an appearance, just to spite me, I'm sure. The visions in my head are fearful. In my sleep, I'm trapped under water and unable to breathe, just like when he first grabbed hold of me. I struggle but can't surface.

It's dark when I open my eyes, but for the muted orange coals in the banked fire. A soothing feeling comes from someone running his fingers through my hair. Where did my braids go?

I roll over on my other side, already guessing who it is. Gale staked out a patch of grass across the fire last night when we all went to sleep, but now he's sitting beside me with his legs crossed. His eyes reflect the dim light from the fire pit; the irises disappeared with nightfall, making his eyes look black.

"You're awake," I croak.

"Yeah," he whispers.

Getting him to elaborate on anything is like pulling teeth. "Why?"

"Bad dreams."

"Oh." I sit up and comb my fingers through my hair. "Me too." Then I ask, "What are you doing over here?"

His calloused fingers make a soft, rasping sound as they scratch his beard. "I woke up. Heard you shaking."

"You did not," I scoff, trying to maintain a hushed tone.

"Maybe not." He shrugs. "But you were shaking."

_And you were looking out for it_, I realize. It makes me feel a little googley. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Stupid junk," he says off-handedly.

I give a soft laugh for his stoicism. "Do you often dream about junk or is there something more interesting going on in your head?"

"I don't dream much. Usually too tired," Gale says, evading the question. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Drowning."

He has the decency to look guilty. "Oh."

"I knew it was a dream because in the scenario, it wasn't your fault." I tease him because it makes the nightmare feel less horrible.

"Wench," he huffs. "Do you have bad dreams a lot?"

I shake my head. "No, but there are a few that keep coming back lately."

"What are they about?" He takes my hand. I squeeze it as I think of the answer.

"The bombing, my parents, and of you getting whipped."

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Me?" he splutters. "Why would you dream about that?"

"I can't forget seeing anything that horrible."

"Hell's teeth." Gale is getting pretty good at reining it in when I tell him something big. He doesn't yell, but he does have to pinch the bridge of his nose for a minute. "You saw me get whipped? What the hell were you doing in the square?"

Bitter laughter rattles in my throat. That afternoon I'd been spreading the word about Thread. Not fast enough, though. But I can't bring myself to tell him about it, so I say, "Just passing through. The crowd blocked me in and then I just couldn't move."

"You saw _all_ of it?" he asks, his voice dark as the night.

I can't really tell what's going through his mind. Is he angry?

"I stayed until Katniss came," I tell him.

Gale rubs his temples. "I don't remember when that was."

"You were unconscious by that time." My chest squeezes tight, remembering it. Not just Gale's suffering, but my guilt. I can't ever bring myself to tell him about Darius and my foolish role in getting the Peacekeeper…in trouble. Or worse. We never did find out what happened to him. And I know that Darius was a friend of Gale's and that he had a certain quality about him that Katniss would call _Hob_. I shudder, imagining what Gale would think of me, knowing that I put his friend in harm's way. My own self-loathing is bad enough. I swallow convulsively, which makes my voice shake. "I saw part of your shoulder blade –"

Gale kisses me. I mumble then give up.

"Let's not think about it, okay?" he says. "It's late. We need to rest up for tomorrow."

No way am I going to sleep well with the memory of him tied to the whipping post. I can still hear the way he gasped in pain as Thread hit him over and over. "Yeah right."

"Maybe we'll sleep better if we're together?" He gently eases me down with him, adjust the blanket over our bodies.

Lying in his arms. "Um. I normally wouldn't let a guy do this on the second day together." Then I remember the nap we took by the creek just before…things went downhill. Well…the sun was out, so it's different. Right?

Gale laughs softly. "Dire straits," he replies. "I mean, most people don't start their first date with a…the way we did," he finishes lamely.

With a death. But I say, "Awful swimming lessons?" because I'd rather not let the bad memories get any closer.

His shoulders shake. "Yeah." Then he says, "Sorry. I didn't think you were really that scared of water or that you would sink like that."

"Well, what did you think?" I ask.

"Just that you were kind of, uh, missish."

I huff. "Honestly, Gale, when I tell you something, you need to believe me."

"I learned my lesson. Anyway, I figured since we're out in the middle of nowhere with no concrete idea of what's to come, we could skip all the preliminary 'holding hands only' polite stuff. We don't really have the luxury."

I'm starting to wonder what sort of post-preliminary _stuff_ he's got in mind. "Are you seducing me?" I ask bluntly.

Gale chokes on something and coughs into the blanket. "What? NO!" he snaps after he recovers.

"Good, because I'm not that kind of girl." I try sitting up but his arm is in the way. I compromise by leaning back on my elbows, not quite sitting up nor lying down. Ha. "I don't know what your family will think if they find us lying like this." I say, returning to my protest about sleeping next to him.

I hear the smiles in his voice. "Still worried about them?"

"What will they think in the morning when we're together?"

"Go to sleep and we'll find out." His arm cinches around my waist, making my elbow pose feel a little ridiculous.

Clearly we're on different wavelengths. "Don't you feel the slightest reservation around your family?"

"Nope. If they don't already have an inkling about us after today then an announcement would probably be lost on them."

"Gale," I chide.

"Look, my family isn't that uppity. But if it'll make you feel better, fine, we'll make a formal announcement tomorrow."

"Hmph. It _will_ make me feel better. And I think your mother wouldn't mind so much, either," I say, trying not to sound so stiff after Gale called me missish.

"Course not." Gale yawns.

I lie down, turning on my side facing opposite. Gale settles in behind me, my back against his chest. I stiffen when I feel his nose press against the nape of my neck. It really is different in the dark. My cheeks heat up in blush. _It'll be okay_, I think to myself, about how close he is. I'll just stay awake until Gale's asleep and then I'll scoot away to a more comfortable distance. Not that I want to sleep by myself. I like the idea of him near me in case the dreams come back. But I'd hate to know what my parents would think. Or everyone else when we wake up.

Simple. Just stay awake long enough to edge away…

...

I wake up with my cheek pressed against a moist spot on my pillow. Ugh. I hate that. I pull my arm loose from between me and my mattress, wiping the back of my hand against my mouth without opening my eyes.

"Nice. She drooled on him. Heh."

Huh? I crack open one bleary eye at a time and startle. I didn't move away last night! And to make matters worse, I turned around and snuggled into Gale. I'm pressed against his chest and there's a dark gray oval where I…drooled. My stomach sinks. _Keep it classy, Madge_.

I stew in my mortification for a moment, just staring at the wet patch hoping it will dry before Gale wakes up. My eyes flick up to his face, slack and peaceful in sleep. He looks deceptively innocent, but that might be accentuated by the crown of fresh daisies on his…

Head.

I gulp and hear a giggle behind me.

Five heads appear in my view as I twist around to look behind me. Rory beams at me. Vick holds a clump of tufty yellow flowers and Posy's hands cover her mouth while she giggles. Prim looks curious and maybe slightly alarmed, and Bristel rather smug.

Hell's teeth. Or whatever.

I quickly twist back into place and try to extricate myself from the tangle of arms and blankets.

"Wait a minute, Madge, or you'll ruin it," Rory whispers. "Go on, Vick." He nudges the younger boy forward.

Vick gives me a gap-toothed, urchin grin. I blink at him, wondering what he's up to just before he selects a dandelion and proceeds to rub it roughly over his brother's cheekbone. Gale's hand flies up to shoo Vick away as though he were a fly, but he doesn't wake up. Vick giggles nervously and throws the smashed weed away. He grabs another and leaves a yellow smudge down Gale's nose.

Gale's face twitches and my slow, just-awakened brain starts to realize that a pranked Gale is probably not a pretty Gale. Especially when the prank wakes him up in the morning. And the person in closest proximity to the beast is none other than myself.

Self-preservation kicks in. "Vick, I don't think that's such a good idea," I whisper as the boy pulls his third dandelion from the bouquet. This time he aims for Gale's upper lip, no doubt to create a golden effect on his moustache. But Gale turns his head just then, and half of the flower's head jams in his nostril.

Gale blusters and sneezes. His eyes snap open. They're the color of steel and just as sharp as a blade. The flower falls out of his nose when he swipes at it.

I sit up and scoot away.

"What is this?" Gale hisses, snatching the offending weed off his chest.

Vick, frozen in place after the dandelion got stuck, glances at the rest of us for help as he faces the eyebrows of doom solo. The little boy bites the inside of his cheek, either in fear or trying not to laugh.

I take pity on the boy.

"Oh, sorry," I say to Gale without thinking too hard. "I dropped it."

Gale faces me, looking incredulous and affronted. _"You?"_

Behind him, Vick sags in relief. I pluck the dandelion out Gale's hand and smudge the pollen onto his forehead. "Much better."

Vick's relief is short lived after what I do next. His mouth forms a perfect O, like I've just taken this a step farther than he thinks wise.

I guess he's right. Gale's eyes grow wide when I tuck the flower behind his ear. His jaw drops. He blinks. He splutters. The daisy chain falls down around his ears, resting on the bridge of his nose. His eyes cross when he tries to look at it.

Rory rips a gut laughing. I can't help it either. Gale looks like a king trying to play with a crown that's too big for his head. Utterly absurd. A few reluctant giggles escape and when Gale rips the crown from his head, tossing it aside, I can't hold back wave of laughter. It continues until my ribs ache and I double over, laughing against Gale's chest. He sits ramrod straight and stiff, suffering the indignity of it all.

I sit up, wiping tears from my eyes. "Good m-morning."

Gale sniffs, looking down at me beneath hooded eyes. "Are you done?

"For now," I reply cheerfully, despite how sour he looks.

"Huh," he grunts. Then he eyes everyone standing around us with displeasure. "What are you guys looking at?"

Vick wrinkles his nose as his eyes glance between us. "Are you going to marry Madge?"

Now my jaw drops. The little boy's bluntness makes my cheeks burn. I give Gale a look which means he's on his own for this one.

"Uh…" Gale looks out of his depth. For all his protests about his family being _fine_ and _unfazed_, he seems to have a hard time answering the question. "Vick." He clears his throat. "It's a…bit soon for that kind of talk. We…well, we were going to say something about what's going on between…"

"Save it, Gale. We figured it out yesterday," Bristel drawls.

Gale glances at me. "Oh, well."

"Awkward, isn't it?" I whisper.

"What is going on here?" Hazelle appears before us. She looks curiously at her children, then Gale's new look. She turns to Rory. "Dandelions? Really?"

"Why do you assume it's my idea," he complains.

"It would be," Hazelle replies, but she's watching us. She eyes the single blanket puddling around our waists. "We need to discuss something." She reaches out for Posy. "Come here, honey." And settles the little girl between us on top of the blanket. She clears her throat. "Boys, Prim, can you give us a moment?"

Bristel gives Gale a sly grin. "Sure, Mrs. Hawthorne." He winks at me. "Later."

Oh dear.

The atmosphere grows a touch uncomfortable as the others walk away. Posy plays with the ruined dandelions, chattering to herself and trying to put it in my hair. Mrs. Hawthorne – I have a hard time calling her Hazelle all of a sudden – folds her arms across her chest.

"Mom?" Gale asks with trepidation. "It's not what it looks like—"

"I figured, but I wanted to say something before you two found yourselves in a compromising situation." She gives us a stern glance, then adds thoughtfully, "After all, the wilderness is no place to bear children and who knows when we'll reach Thirteen."

Bear children? My eyes bug out. Oh god. Oh dear. I just got my first _real_ kiss two days ago! Where is this talk of kids coming from?

We hear a snort from Rory's direction and I flinch.

"Blast it, Mom," Gale growls petulantly. "They're listening to everything you say."

Hazelle looks over her shoulder, when she turns back I barely catch a glimpse of a scary mom glare aimed at her other sons. She presses her lips together in a friendly smile.

I blink and blush and wish Gale would go away. "Uh…" I garble. "Mrs. Hawthorne, I'm not, we're not, you know…trying to have kids or anything like that. I had a nightmare last night and he just sort of…nothing happened."

Mrs. Hawthorne nods her head. "Just making sure, Madge. I know you're a responsible young woman and we can have a talk when you two are ready," she smiles brightly, "to get married."

I'm getting a headache not married.

Mrs. Hawthorne's eyes narrow. "Until then, back off a little, Gale."

Strangled sounds emanate from Gale's throat, but Mrs. Hawthorne doesn't seem to notice. "Keep it in your pants like a good boy and everyone will get along fine."

"Hell's teeth, Ma!" Gale looks horrified. Like he wishes the earth would swallow him up. That's sort of how I feel too. Gale scrunches the hair on the back of his head. "What kind of a guy do you think I am?"

"A male one," she replies. "I've got my eye on you." She wheedles her finger at him.

"We're not doing anything wrong. Like Madge said, she wasn't sleeping well." He grouses, "I thought you'd be pleased and all, what with the way you were ripping on me for not being nice to her."

"I am pleased." She nods. "But your sleeping arrangements weren't really what I had in mind for _nice_, Gale_._ I also know what young men are like. Your father never could keep his hands off of me, and I don't want you getting carried away with Madge. Besides, as the oldest you set an example to Rory, Vick, and Posy."

"Don't worry, Mrs. H. I'll keep an eye on them," Bristel calls.

Gale and I both groan. This is so humiliating.

"You weren't supposed to eavesdrop, Bristel," she replies in a cutting tone.

"Sorry." But he isn't.

Hazelle's attention is back on us. "Behave."

As Hazelle tells Posy to stay put between us, I cringe, not wanting to think about what my parents would _think_. I watch Hazelle's retreating figure, cheeks burning. It's one thing to hear it from a parent – certainly bad enough – but it's so much worse to hear it from my boyfriend's mother.

"Huh. Nobody lectured Peeta Mellark after he spent weeks smarming up to Katniss in a sleeping bag. One night…just one…and my mom practically pulls out a chastity belt," he hisses under his breath.

"This is your fault." I jab him in the chest. "I _told_ you!"

"Ow." He rubs over his shirt. He stops and inspects his fingers for a second, then pulls his shirt out to find the wet mark I left, looking confused. He casts me a suspicious glance, but doesn't mention it. "What did you want me to do? Leave you alone with your nightmares?"

"I wanted you to be a little more conservative in front of your family until we announced our relationship. _You_ said they wouldn't care, and clearly we've managed to scandalize your mother!"

"She's not scandalized." He says, "Though I'm feeling that way myself."

I stand up, shoving the blanket onto his lap. "I'm getting breakfast."

Behind me I hear Posy blow a raspberry with her tongue and pad after me. Ha. Girls sticking together.

I join the others, careful not to make eye contact. My cheeks are permanently stained – not yellow like Gale's – but just as obvious. We eat stewed tubers in a gopher sauce while the kids banter on about odd things. Gale wanders over and takes a plate. He settles in next to Bristel.

I hear Bristel mutter, "Seems to me that the _sister_ _routine_ isn't working so well for you. Bit of a hypocrite, aren't you, Hawthorne?"

Sister routine? Is he referring to Hazelle's little talk? Or something entirely different?

"Nope. I said Rory and Vick should treat her like a sister. Besides, she doesn't look remotely related to me," Gale replies in a hushed voice. He sets his plate aside.

I feel utterly confused and maybe like I should be offended.

"Yes, I've heard that before. It didn't make sense then. Doesn't make sense now," Bristel replies. "But whatever happened to _not being affected by the women on this crew_?"

Gale pares away a fingernail, looking unconcerned. "Bristel," he says genially, though I can hear the smirk in his voice. "When you drag a woman out of a burning district, you can keep her too."

What?! I drop my fork in the grass and have to clean it off, pretending that I am not hearing their conversation.

Bristel snorts. "Fair enough. We were only pulling your leg anyhow."

"I figured that." Although, Gale doesn't sound completely convinced.

Vick pipes up. He's sitting on the other side of Bristel. "That means Rory has to marry Posy, because he carried her out."

Posy giggles into her hands while Rory throws a rock at Vick. "Gross."

"What were you two talking about?" I ask Gale.

Gale sets his plate down, purposefully ignoring me. "So, how about that snare run?"

"_Gale_."

"I'll tell you later," he says.

"Fine," I grumble. Then I say, "By the way, you might want to wash your face. You've got pollen all over it."

I get back on my feet and flounce away. When I look back, Gale's gaping at the reflection of himself on the bottom of a snap tin.

….

Everyone's packing up their things, eating the last bits of food that won't last, or cleaning up the snap tins. Posy, Prim, and I take a trip down to the creek to wash, though I swore to do the contrary yesterday. As it turns out, I do smell. A little. On the way back I realize that I've left the cake of soap, and go back, waving the younger girls on.

After all, Liquor's dead. I chant this to myself. The likelihood of anyone else popping out at me from nowhere is very un—Ahhh!

A hand clamps over my arm, which is what caused my scream. Another one covers my mouth. It smells like wood smoke and salt. Despite the shock my mouth waters a little.

"Go on the snare run one more time with me before we leave?" Gale asks from behind me. His arm wraps around my waist and I feel his nose against my wet hair. His chest expands against my back as he breathes in. "We're not going to be alone for a while once we start walking."

"I'm going to kill you," I garble against his hand. He removes it and walks around me. I glare at him.

A lopsided grin sprawls over his face. "Sorry. You never hear me coming."

"You and your ruddy velvet tread," I huff, stepping around him.

"Velvet tread? Sounds like a name for someone in the Capitol," he says, stepping along side me. "Wait, Velvet Tread…wasn't that an escort of District 1 once?"

I ignore his jokes. "And why do you always cover my mouth?"

"Because you always split my ears with your yowling."

I stop abruptly and he nearly trips over my heels, that's how close he's walking. "Well, stop sneaking up on me!"

"I _didn't_. That's how I walk, Madge," he says. "If I had a heavier tread we'd be eating birch bark for dinner instead of meat."

"You aren't hunting right this moment so I don't see why you can't do me a favor and just clod around like the rest of us mortals," I reply irritably.

Gale puts his hands on his hips. "Are you coming on the snare run or not?"

"Who else is coming?" I ask.

He looks around. "Nobody."

"That's a bad idea."

"Why?"

Oh please. "Gale! Your mom just gave us a dressing down." I cross my arms. "I don't think being alone is such a good idea."

He shrugs. "Yeah, I know. So?"

"Weren't you listening to her at all?" I gasp.

"Please?" For a second I think he actually tries to make his eyes look wide and innocent, but then he slips in a cheeky grin.

Drat. The puppy eyes I might have resisted. But that smirk, it speaks to the part of me that gets a thrill from sneaking newspapers.

"Oh fine."

I follow him up the bank, noticing that we leave the thicket at a point further upstream than usual. Coincidence? I think not. Way to avoid the camp and the moms – oh bugger.

I remember the soap. "Gale, we have to go back. I left something by the creek."

"Forget about it," he says without concern, grabbing my hand.

"But it's the soap. We can't waste it."

"We'll get it when we come back." I let him pull me along.

The first snare is empty. Rotten luck. Gale collects the supplies and stows them in his pack. The second snare is also empty. In fact, they're all empty!

"Imagine that," he says as he dismantles the last one.

I don't think this is a coincidence. "Somebody's already been to collect them, haven't they?"

Gale shrugs from where he's crouching on the ground. "We've been here a few days. Game's drying up."

"Not likely," I say, shifting my weight from foot to foot while I stand over him. "Your snares always work."

He smirks. "Yup."

It takes me a moment to catch his meaning. I gasp. "You did that on purpose," I accuse. "Your mother's going to kill us."

He looks up at me. "She won't."

"When Hazelle finds out we snuck off like this she's going to shun me from your family and leave me out here to rot in the wilderness for acting like a tramp."

"Madge, that's impossible. One, I'm pretty sure she thinks _I'm _the guilty one. This little trip is no different from when I showed you how to make a fish line. Two, you've already wormed your way into the family. Posy adopted you from day one. And the kids already have you covering for Vick. No going back now."

I blink at him. That was really sweet, but how did he know about Vick? "Covering for Vick? What?"

He snorts, heavy eyebrow arched. "Oh come on, Madge. He had a clump of the weeds in his hand still."

"Well," I cry, "I'm not good at being on the spot and he looked scared of you."

"Vick's not scared of me," he denies. "The kid just knows I could string him from his ankles if I needed to."

Well, that should comfort the boy. "I didn't want him to get in trouble and I didn't think about him holding the stupid dandelions."

Gale sits down in the long grass. It's taller than his head that way. "You'll learn to think fast. You already are."

I sit down next to him. "How?"

"You made it this far, didn't you?" he asks.

I nod. "But I had some help."

"Everybody needs help. Doesn't mean they aren't clever or cunning. Learning to adapt is the hardest part, but you did. I'll never forget seeing you all covered in poison itch. That idea was a stunner."

I'm still scabbing over in some places, but I'm not telling him where.

"I should have come up with a better plan."

"Don't bother with _shoulds_. You did what you could. You got away," he says, his eyes earnest. "And you've learned other things, like spear fishing. And swimming, to a lesser degree. Plus, we survived the worst obstacle course in Panem."

"Maybe not the worst…" I say, thinking of all the Hunger Games I remember seeing.

"The firebombing was pretty damn bad."

I can't disagree. "I guess we're not done yet, either. Not until we find Thirteen. If such a place even exists still."

"I hope so," Gale says. He pulls off the tufty end of some Indian grass to play with. The seeds fall off the stalk when he runs it through this fingers.

I lean against his shoulder, pulling up a few blades too. "What if we don't find it?"

Considering that I only found out about the existence of a rebel stronghold in Thirteen a few days ago, I'm banking an awful lot on it. When I really think about living in the wilderness forever, I feel overwhelmed. Am I cut out for it? We won't have _anything_.

"We'll build a cabin somewhere," Gale says, like he doesn't feel an ounce of uncertainty about it.

"For all of us?" It seems a bit crowded.

"Well, _cabins_, I guess. But I thought we were just talking about the two of us." He winks at me. I blush.

What is it with the Hawthornes getting way ahead of themselves? "Isn't it a bit soon to think about sharing a cabin?"

He gets that superior look in his eyes. "We're constantly on the verge of dying, in case you haven't noticed. Nothing's _too_ _soon_."

Well, when you put it like that.

His hand brushes down my back. "We'll make it," Gale murmurs. "Even if the rebellion doesn't exist and Thirteen is a pipe dream."

"You could make it," I tell him. "We're just following you. I didn't last long on my own."

"I'll take care of you," Gale vows. His hand cups my cheek. I close my eyes and feel his lips cover mine, sealing the promise.

I decide to believe him, but I can't shake how bleak it seems. Even as he presses a kiss against my forehead, can't help but think about the kids and Bristel. What kind of a future will they have if District Thirteen is a sham? I have Gale now, but who would they have? Bristel's older than Gale, but far too young for…the moms. Prim is too young for him.

"Do you think Rory would go for Prim one day?" I ask.

"Ew."

That wasn't Gale's voice, though he's looking at me with his nose wrinkled in disgust. He looks at someone behind me. "Rory, what are you doing here?"

"Following Bristel."

"Bristel, do you mind?" Gale grouses at the boys, unhappy about the interruption.

"Just doing my duty," Bristol replies. I can hear the cheer in his voice. "Er, hands in the air, Hawthorne."

Gale glares at the miner beneath craggy eyebrows.

Rory steps into view. "Mom wants you two to come back to camp so we can head out."

"Right." Gale curses under his breath and helps me to my feet, our conversation on hold. He pulls me along by the hand at a quick pace. His legs have a few inches on mine. I nearly trip over his heels trying to keep up and decide to drop his hand.

Bristel falls in step with me as I find my own pace.

"So, is it too late for you and me?" Bristel asks, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

I smile, thinking how he's late by five or six years! "It was always too late for us, Bristel."

"Hm. Well. Once you realize what an ass Gale is, I'll be there for you."

I laugh. "You two are such odd friends. I can't remember ever seeing you two get along."

"It's the secret of our charm."

We reach camp shortly. Everyone is set with their packs. Posy takes my hand. She looks like a new person, scrubbed clean just this morning. _That won't last long_, I think. Then I remember that I left the soap behind.

I give everyone an apologetic grin. "I forgot the soap again. I'll just run down again and get it," I say.

I start down the bank, making more noise than usual. Or is it that the thicket is unusually quiet? The buzz of the insects and the bird songs are gone. Then I hear it: a tell-tale shrill note of alarm. The trill of a mockingjay. Within seconds I hear the crashing and trampling of hurried feet behind me. I turn and see my family scrambling with our packs through the rhododendrons. Gale's behind them, urging them on. He's got Posy over his shoulder and I immediately worry about his injured arm.

"What?" I ask when he reaches me.

Gale's eyes look grey as slate against his pale face. "Trouble. Hovercraft. Everyone get down."

We crouch in the undergrowth, hoping that between the shrubs and trees, they won't see us.

No such luck. Even though we have all our things, traces still linger from our camp. The blackened fire pit. The trampled grass. Out of nowhere the hovercraft decloaks. A huge one. It dwarves the plain as it descends. The displaced air whips through the open space. The wind in the thicket kicks up bracken and causes our hair to fly around our heads.

I feel a horrible chill, fearful that after all this time the Capitol has caught up with us. Foolishly, I believed that we'd left Panem behind when we fled from Twelve and that was the last we'd have to see of Peacekeepers. With so many other things to worry about, I'd never given a thought to capture.

My hand reaches out and connects with Gale's. He gives it a squeeze. Guess we had the same idea. I feel a little better now and force myself to face the danger with my head up.

It's difficult. I'd rather bury my face against Gale's other shoulder and pretend that if I can't see the bad guys, then they can't see me.

The hovercraft lands and the stirred air calms down, clearing my vision. Our gazes lock on the ship, waiting for our doom. It seems like my eyes are about to burn a hole through the side of the craft when I notice something. An insignia, only partially within view, painted on the side of the hovercraft. It takes me much longer than it should to place the image.

Is it possible?

I laugh out loud, a deep belly laugh, and dart out from under the brush.

"_Madge_!" Gale hisses. "Are you crazy?" I hear him getting up to follow.

"It's all right," I cry, breaking into the sunlight. "Look!"

It's the mockingjay insignia. It has to be. And part of a name...one I know so very well.

I start waving my arms to get the attention of anyone who might be watching from inside, now terribly afraid that they'll decide nobody's here and take off. I'm jumping in place, but then my wrists are seized by Gale and I'm being lugged off into the thicket again.

"Knock it off, Madge." His fingers bite into my shoulders as he spins me around to face him. "It could be a ruse of the Capitol," Gale growls in my ear. "You want to get yourself killed? And the rest of us, too?"

"It's not," I shout. "It's a rebel craft. It _has_ to be."

A hatch opens in the side of the hovercraft, issuing a ramp.

"I guess we'll find out," Gale growls.

* * *

**The end of Part I**

_Thanks for reading! I'll be taking a bit of a break to have a bit of a life and gets some plotting done for Part II. It'll be a bit more involved than I originally planned. ;)  
_


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